The Monsoon

The monsoon. Not soon enough.

It hangs in the Arab Sea as punishment

For men’s misdeeds – shall we be gender just

Say women’s crimes as well?

The monsoon. God’s hand

Over India, showering largesse

Here, there, somewhere never.

Men’s parched throats must be raised

To resist politic evil, the easy patronage

Of sharing of seats, money.

The monsoon. Waits our decision.

In the sea off the Malabar coast,

Where spare white-clothed men

And girls in clouds of long black hair

Await the sting of rain,

Sparking green under the dusty Asian Brown.

We think the Gods are sheltered from our evil,

Secret under canopies of dust,

But hungry children are heard like shots

Around the world, noted in stats,

Drawn in charts, talked about

In talk shows, serenely dismissed

In commissions of rights.

The monsoon hangs in the sea.

Its rain must feed the people,

Not grow the fat of the rich.