We are waiting
for monsoon, a Dilli
eclipsed by water.

The cool silence
after rain washes
tears dry.

Can it be compared:

The pain of holding on
in flood, to those held
by the nursing mothers
who cannot read, cannot move
from under shackled rooves?

The motion of their mouths
swift and blurred
like a red eye slapped across
the face, and spitting.

Strands of tobacco falling like saffron.

Dear Thunder moon,

Have you heard
the chuckle of Earthly shadows
skipping in puddles of mud?

Have you heard of peace in flossed dust?

Spell-bind us in storm, spin us
with your light.

The temple of Deva
welcomes you

And your children are waiting.