In afternoon's sun there is presence of the wind,
even as summer's rains have not abated.
Nor the claptrap of monsoons.
There is a heave, a sigh of fortuitous hills,
the mind speaks, sees waterfalls
which gush out like torrent of summer springs.
Water does not quench thirst only eyes
that feel smells of dust, rains and importunate skies.
I remain mute to silent witness of time,
as in a neighbouring place orgy of violence continues.
There is blood in our heads
as importunate rivers spout the blood of lives.
