26-11

Do you speak the language of the rain?
If you do, please tell me what it’s saying.
Doesn’t it seem a little sad and melancholy today?
Does it also remember what happened on this day?

Are these raindrops but tears shed for those who were killed,
for the brave and innocent, our guardians and friends?
Do they wish to drown the heartless, who with hatred filled
the hearts of the gullible to achieve their ends?

Do these dark clouds seek to remind us of the terrible past?
Are they just passing through, or are they here to last?
Is the restless, rustling wind struggling to explain,
the solitude of sorrow and the pensiveness of pain?

Does the thunder talk of plunder?
Of cold blooded killings and surrender?
Of the destruction of timeless beauty and traditions,
Of meaningless hate and purposeless missions?

Does the Sun hide behind the clouds in shame
as we continue to blame the pawns in the game,
while the kings move around freely as before,
devising their devious machinations and more?

Will we remember this day only to forget?
Or will it remind us that there is hope, yet?
That bravery, courage and valor are not dead;
they are just soldiers waiting to be led.

– Sharan Rao

THE ONSET OF THE MONSOON II

There’s a freshness in the air,
anticipation everywhere,
can you feel the coming rain?
And if you feel its scent linger,
can you hear what its bringer,
the ocean wind, is saying?

There’s a freshness in the air,
anticipation everywhere,
can you see the coming rain?
From the flashes up there,
can you tell when and where
the rain-gods will be playing?

There’s a freshness in the air,
anticipation everywhere,
can you hear the coming rain?
A roar above is proof
That soon, on your roof,
The rain dance will begin again.

SEVEN DROPS OF RAIN

Seven drops of rain
land gently on my hand,
each one, I see,
has its own, unique beauty.

The first is so well groomed,
and perfectly round,
it looks like it’s seen the world
and traveled all around.

The second moves mischievously,
like a playful child,
naive and trusting,
but carefree and wild.

The third sits quietly
on my palm,
perfectly still,
content and calm.

The fourth is simply lovely
to look upon,
to mesmerize the senses
it seems to have been born.

The fifth seems awkward
but also has qualities rare;
it shields the others
with great love and care.

Number six appears to be in a fix,
for it knows not what to do,
but when it finds its niche,
it will surpass the others too.

The last, hollow and empty,
has everything all the same,
the nameless one,
to which you could give any name.

-Written in 2011

SMALL WONDERS

The mesmerizing, magical melody of music,
A song full of warmth, like a gently burning wick;
The sound of silence, full of wisdom unbroken,
A word of comfort and hope, well spoken.

Giant, dark clouds bringing the welcome rain,
A roar of thunder that dwarfs Earthly pain,
The whispering of tides on an ocean vast,
The whistling of the wind, full of memories past.

The comforting chirp of a bird on a lonely stretch of road,
A helping hand out of nowhere, to carry half your load;
A night lit up by the light of many a radiant star,
The mirror of self-awareness, revealing how lovely you really are.

-Written in Feb 2012

THE ONSET OF THE MONSOON

With the nervous excitement
of a bride on her wedding day,
the parched Earth prepares herself
for the shower of blessings coming her way.

Woven with the fierce fabric of the monsoon,
her dress she will begin to drape,
as these arid lands will be enlivened soon,
for from the coming storm there is no escape.

With a thunderous beat, it comes, lightning quick,
the sweet ocean winds are its wings,
it brings cheer to the summer-sick,
while the joyful farmer sings.

Drenched, in delight the willows weep,
and children cry with laughter and mirth,
as shepherds try to gather their sheep,
even birdsong, once dry, is now alive like the Earth.