(I’ve been in some crazy thunderstorms in my life. Some like the monsoons in India are beautiful songs and some have been the angry screams of a pained world.)
Here we speak, we pray, we make,
We toil much, yet more we take,
The Earth we seem to rent asunder,
Quiet are the rolls of thunder.
We plunge our sorrows in the drink,
Clean water draining like a sink,
Not feeling sorrow in our breath,
We fill the world with fumes of death.
We kill and hate and bury under,
But quiet are the rolls of thunder.
For in the end if we are not,
It does not matter what we sought,
If we don’t stop to smell the rain,
It may not come to drench again.
We can complete our wicked scheme,
Leave the Earth without a dream,
And drowning out our tales of plunder,
Loud will be the rolls of thunder.
(c) Isvari Mohan, 2013