It Being The Day

one of great travail
where no work is done
still poses a tedium.

Exhausted I turn,
with sweat in the forehead,
perspiring with a sigh
as the sun draws to noon.

The skin becomes dry
Hands and feet give up
I am fallen. Trodden
by the extreme heat.

Air conditioners, fans
prove no match to the warmth.
Forecasts say this will continue
for few more days.

It will be dog day,
I drink pot full
bathe thrice, I cannot
smother the parchment.

As age catches up
the rigour is unbearable,
I stand without ease
no other way I could,