April 28


It is a hot day
the fiercest this summer.
I hear no birds
nor the buzz of bees.

My plants look tired.
Trees bend towards the ground.
My grass is yellow. Dry like hay.
They seem to cry for water.
I see earthen pots filled with water
outside each household.
Few samaritans keep buttermilk
seasoned with spices.

Tender coconuts, watermelons,
flood the pavements.
They fetch an extraordinary revenue,
the hawkers thrive.

Festivals abound, a mechanism
that creates a distraction.
One indulges in the divinity
diffuses in the fervour.

The children lick the ice fruit,
The adults swish their tongues
with cotton candies while the
deities go round in silver chariots.

The heydays are on the anvil.
Mercury soars, water turns sparse.
drought stares hard. Land turns sterile
Epidemics and deaths lineup.

Summers are unpleasant. Horrific.
I experience aches, dehydration.
It is late April. Imagine not
what it would be in early May.

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