of rain, umbrellas and glasses

now, you tell, in each town is there a guy
with an umbrella, tuck in his underarm, so high
when the rain pours to the drought’s delight
when the season as lovelorn as him—oh, pity his plight!
when the rain makes a stream of the streets?

—for the billion of people, teeming,
for just satisfying your ego, and indulging,
let us say there are ever
men in this monsoon milieu, so eager
with passion to the brim of their hearts

with umbrellas, holding snugly
prepared for the unsure deluge blankly
prepared, tho', to end the day with delectation
in this light-diminishing evening hours, fattened
with love, they are moving even if we can see none of them;

even then, would you find anyone, in distress
for whom you care not to care for your illness
for whom you can stay in the rain
while you just bring yourself up, energy regained
from the bed of seasonal sickness?

in the rain, holding and sharing the umbrella
our glasses are deceiving not; the fleeting drama,
vapour and sprinkles and earth smell and droplets of liquid
inside, the clouded vision, to nothing we have pleaded

the rain stains the glasses,
the vision is not clear, nor is it opening
but when we see nothing
but feel each other, our presence acknowledged, and rises

not even the rain
not even the million of men
not even the stain
nothing do we ever care but our own existence,
this is how the world moves in silence.