Dripping drops of sweat.
Your soul has always advertised a green cool of the coorg....
Like the thirsty sparrows who now rarely chirp.
Even the long pitch road gives a view of the sahara.
Itching flesh and wet provisions enigmatasises of a dullness.
Warmth of touch is not felt.
O monsoon.....
O o rain....
The earth is wailing, it is burning...
Cry for it...
Give it a hope to hope to need itself....
O water wash us...
Of our earthly sins...
Paining has been waitful...
It is time to forget all forgerfulness that we all have a green innocence.
All the weeds of guilt and the sands of shame, every ungrown seed of love and every tree of grey invisibility....
Needs even that last drop of your vitality.
Wet us.
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