Monsoon Diaries-II: Song of the Earth’s Darkest Night


When clouds gather dark and green

And the earth’s pores damp and soaked

feel its silent quivering untold

When there rises the fragrance unknown

of the earth from its deep dark womb –

I have tears in my eyes,

When shall I meet you?


How soft and how tender my hands were

When you held them firmly

And pulled me along on that path washed by sunlight

Rocky, solitary, perilous

(It was, the most beautiful dream of my life).


But look,

These hands can handle today the plough and the hoe

And break rocks and stones,

They have learned how to wield the sword

And carry the load of the entire earth.

But look, how fresh your first touch still  

On my palms cracked and rough!


Yes, I get worn out and sometimes spent

And feel ashamed even to admit this,

Ever since that dream – drenched in light,

Blessed my life,

Hoping to see you one day on this path meandering

Far I have traveled

I want to tell you everything,

Those wounds, when you touch them, will heal

I know so well.  


Before I bid adieu to this world –

You will come,

That you will come, I never gave up hoping,

And waiting for you

My days I spend,

Years pass,

And year upon year I watch –

A sad spring on my land descend

Descend and take leave,

While I wait patiently,

Wait for you to come and meet me.


Listen to me,

I want to meet you,

And tell you so much,

Tale of a little girl, who once lived

And of a childhood long vanished.   

Those broken stone stairs –

That led to that river,

See, they are still there,

Those stairs old, shaded by trees of plums,

Where still lies a day incomplete somewhere,

You will come and make it complete

You will hold my hands there,

They are no more beautiful,

Cracks and scars ugly – all are visible.


I know,

Your dream and your hope shall live

Even when I depart,

But what to do with this heart

That wants to see you before it beats its last.


Yes, I hope to see you and tell you

That many a times did I fall,

Walking on this road rough,

There are wounds and cuts, yes,

But every time I have stood up again

I have kept my words,

These long dark hours spent in waiting

I have learned so much –

Your land beautiful,

For it, sword I have learned to pick up,

My head is still high

And as much beautiful

I never let it get disgraced and blemished!

(Pls note: The featured image is from my garden. And yes, do drop in your comments and suggestions! thanks.)


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