by Aniket Pandit

Created on: September 01, 2008   Last Updated: September 18, 2008

The Weatherman

There are times when the rain does not come,
Times when the water does not replenish,
Moments when the dirt seems ever present.
Like the stains on the moon's crescent.

Its times like these, the prevalence of filth,
When the selfish sun refuses to set.
And as the wind dies and the heat sinks in,
Our hope evaporates in the air of sin.

For how long must we wait, and ponder?

For how many years must I plead for providence?
The hourglass drains, the light dims.
The night sky speaks, of matters grim.

The weatherman knows not, when the clouds will come.
The farmer as thirsty as his land is parched.
All await the downpour, from kingdom come.
when the mud will slide, and the water will run.

When the monsoon arrives, and the summer is gone.
The first drop dripping from heaven's deluge.
When our bodies will be drenched with water and breeze.
ALL our weary hearts will finally be at ease.

There will be a time when the rain does come.
A time when the fire is extinguished.
A moment when the dust will vanish outright.
Under the moon's shimmering light.

For that is the destiny of all,
The secret of the weatherman.
Which he knows without a shadow of a doubt,
Even in the most unforgivable drought.
That our souls may burn in fire and flame,
But we must always keep our eyes open for the coming rain.

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