“Listen to me as one listens to the rain…”
—Octavio Paz
Rain is a duet
by
earth and sky;
it falls with the softness
of petals on the wet grass.
Music of rain heard
In an empty lot, overgrown with weeds, the adjacent
red-bricked wall is pock-marked with graffiti, the usual
distorted mouths, eyes; spray-painted command clear:
Go back to your country, immigrants!
A furry ball uncurls into a cat. A hobo curses the unseen foes in a slurred speech.
The bird flies in the dark sky, a mere dot.
Commuters wait, plugged inside their phones; the rain drums on the concrete.
Let us come alive, you and I, in this gentle rain! Come!
The circular patterns traced rhythmically by the
slender fingers, on bare-midriff, shaded nook
in the butterfly garden, piece of the lakefront reclaimed,
away, away
from
the prying eyes, lulled by the rain, wet wind, the sonic
waves that come rolling from those regions, dim, distant.
Come, slide into my life, again, like the vernal showers
unravel the knotted selves with wet tongues; unpack the grammar
of desires, dreams and memories, as I stand here and listen to the rain,
along with
Octavio Paz, a few feet away, at the open bus stand.
.
—Sunil Sharma
Picture Nick Victor
Academic |Writer | Critic | Editor | Freelance Journalist | Reviewer | Literary InterviewerEditor: Setu: http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.htmlWebsite:https://sunil-sharma.com
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.