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| Rainy Mornings |
It should rain every night,
And eyes feast on green and brown.
They call the perfume petrichor.
It must not be bottled up and poured,
at will.
I could not afford to buy if it was,
Available in a fancy shop.
It smells of womb,
My mother's love.
It covers me in lightness.
My heart and soul,
Languishing in the daily rot,
Of existence,
In mythical cities and towns,
Open their third eye,
To Tandava of love.
Let me indulge,
in lucid dreams.
Of villages and mango trees.
Of empty, faraway groves,
That exist only in my head.
The music of the rain,
Tupur, tapur as the baby says,
Makes me want to unfurl my wings.
The notes perfect,
The sound same,
From the time I remember,
Sleeping under a sheet of tin.
I wish it rained every night.
And, I don't have to,
Water my plants,
Or wash the car clean.
~ Shoma
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