In this sandy time,
when the courtyard of my heart is filled with fallen yellow leaves
you're asking me to write a poem on 'rain'
how can I tell you how difficult it is for me
in this stone time to write a poem on the fragrance of green
tell me the truth—when do the clouds of monsoon come again
bearing the love proposal of a longing?
where does that sweet scent of the first shower rise from the womb of the earth ?
when are the swings of monsoon installed in the mango groves?
where does the monsoon of joy
rain down in its purest form
in which sand, which field?
in which courtyard, which forest of the heart?
Tell me, my friend
When it rains today,
a burst of gunpowder emanates from the earth's very body
The water flows like a red stream
Amid flames of fire,
Amid the screams of death,
How can I hear the water-wave laughter of the clouds?
How can I write a poem on rain in this dying hour?
Tell me, I fondly remember those days when, with the stray winds,
the clouds of monsoon would come, swaying and swirling, singing a chorus
