Monsoon

The tiny drops of water pay their visits for a couple months a year
Some wait for it, while for others, it is what they fear
The farmers love it, the sound they await to hear
While a brickmaker wants these two months to disappear

There are things which are to be cherished still
Like eating roasted maize next to the windowsill
Like the sweet petrichor while toiling hard in the mill
Like the humid winds with their trademark chill

 Oh, who can forget the frog's low-pitched croak
 Or going out for groceries only to be soaked
Or getting stuck in a shop with an unknown bloke
Or sitting around campfire with your joyous folks

But this is a time I relish, for the fritters on a cold rainy night
But this is a time I cherish, even though the sun is out of sight