A deep overcast covered the night sky,
hiding the moon and the stars behind,
away from my sight-
just like a mother,
hiding her infant from the unholy vision,
behind the pallu of her saree,
over her tired breasts.
Lightning sparkled,
ornamenting the dark cloud
and within a fraction of second it disappeared,
turning the cloud into a widow
sitting in front of the frozen body
of her husband with eyes numbed,
struggling to make the first drop
of her tears,
leading to a complete downpour,
fall.
And as soon as that first drop touched the soil,
a mysterious aroma of a forlorn glee was born.


A gentle gust of wind blowing from the West,
carried an uncertainty with it.
The uncertainty in the mind of the boatsmen,
rowing along the violent calmness of the sea.
The wind carried a melancholy.
The grief of a tranquil tempest.
The rain drops started falling more violently
over the soil,
trying to hold those eroded particle together
but instead making them more scattered,
just like an over possessive husband
trying to hold his wife
while pushing her heart apart.
The rain drops kept falling in a rhythm.
And while falling,
they kept writing words.
Each word hid a metaphor-
of joy, of grief, of love, of home.
What if these rain
which we treat as a mere drop of water
turns out to be the poems,
cried by the God?
The drop that fell over the dusty rose petals,
healing a lover's dying heart,
carries the harmony of the Krishna's flute,
played for his beloved?


Two drops of the rain fell from the roof,
wetting my feet
that burnt itself while running over the sand dunes.
A paper boat sailed in the water
stagnant in front of the gate.
A sudden current flowed,
taking it to its watery grave.
Thunder roared from between two clouds.
The coconut tree,
a few metres away,
kept swing to and fro,
vigorously
yet never broke down-
like a mother's believe on her prayers
for her heart,
hovering over a sea on this stormy night.
The gentle harmony of the divine flute
suddenly changed into a deadly tandava.
The rose whose dusty petals
gained a life to love, few minutes back,
lay on a corner of the garden, uprooted.
And that's where the irony lies.
While both the harmony of the flute
and the tandava were symbols of love,
one healed while other destroyed.
While the rain storm sung an ode
of relief for many,
somewhere
it uprooted a heart
making it bleed poems
all over its grave until dead.
While we all keep waiting
for the 'शाओनागगने घोर घनघटा',
we never want the
'निशिथयामिनी' to come along.

- Indrashish Roy

PS: Poem is inspired from the song "शाओनागगने घोर घनघटा, निशिथयामिनी रे।"

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#love
#rain
#poem
#nature
#firstquote
#writco