Mourning The Monsoons

When skies on high

Thirsty feel,

They drink

Whole rivers dry.

The skies on high

Then, like a rich

Man in sympathy,

Wi' disinterest sigh.

The high skies,

Like a penniless beggar

With wide-open eyes,

Merely vacantly stare.

The skies on high,

Their well of kindness dry,

Do only gape on,

In eyes devoid of care.

The unhappy skies on high,

With hanging skin,

So care-worn and thin,

Have forgotten how to cry.