To him, fragrance of mud enchants.
Odor of fertilizer and manure, he breathes.
Field’s fertility builds his vitality.
He dreads monsoon’s hostility.
Season’s rains he prays for, all the while.
Thunder and lightening make him smile.
Those dark clouds and streaks of light bring tears.
That sound and sight is a treat to his eyes and ears.
His fields earn his bread and butter.
That he grows our food is true to the last letter.
Unseasonal rains crash his crops.
Sight of dead fields kills his hopes.
Starvation and suffering knock at the door.
Debts and loss ground him to the floor.
Helpless and hopeless is this son of toil.
Unnatural end buries him under tons of soil.
Merciless monsoon’s fury does not seem to end.
More and more sons become victims of this fiend.
Mother Nature’s ways are weird and scary.
She isn’t always an angel or a fairy.