This wind which takes its name
From the month when it keeps on
Like someone
Learning to speak
Tries to say something to me
Year after year
But goes undeciphered;
For some it is more
Like a footloose lunatic;
Who has come back again
With the same incoherent story;
Walking is now like toddling
Or ambling on drunken feet;
I hear it cursed, at first
By women for its wanton ways
When it snatches at their clothes
Like a voyeur's minion
And messes up their hair
As would an envious in-law;
After a few days
It becomes a naughty child
Whose antics bring back smiles
And memories of the butter-thief;
It is at night the wind breaks down
Rattles every door and window
Crying to be let in

by Prabhakar Subramaniam

Other poems of SUBRAMANIAM (233)

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