Summer Poem by Prafulla Kumar Panda

The day deprecates his night
for being passive and of short height,
and like a passionate man
who scolds his wife for her lost estrogen,
so is summer, lately quite impatient grown
and struts and frets his ember like passion

still clinging to bed,
the youth's tired limbs try to fend
and squeak at his early reach
peeping at him through the window pitch
the rose trees shed tears over the fall of their shrunken petals
that contagiously grow and grip the gardener
who is hopeless and haplessly stands near
and wipes with a gamcha his sweat-mixed tear

at noon,
when from the field they return,
the half-fed cattle stop and listen
to the eels rising from the mud,
who with painful jocund
say and regret their stay
while ruefully they measure the depth of the mucky pond.
(gamcha (Ind.) - a loin cloth; a short towel)
©Prafulla Kr. Panda, India.
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