The Missing Rains

These were the days when I’m shivering because  the floor is so cold cold cold and walls are damp damp damp
There is running nose that competes with outside rain
And I feel no longer excited
Or care for the dark cloud as the contrast background to the flying super white cranes
Isn’t it every-year ordeal when you first fall for its charm,
the various shades of green and wide landscapes looking like a bountiful farm?
then you complain about road potholes filled with water
that too mixed with the sewage, and you barely balance your walks and vehicles
missing the murky, murkier, and murkiest gutter
there is respite only because the season ends
to begin the ditto saga next year with no new writer’s amend
It was all so predictable and I knew not worse than this
and that trumping by thunderous rains on humans can be actually a bliss
there was going to be this day when the precious of gold will be liquid water
but wasn’t that to happen generations after my death when the planet turns hotter?

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