the rain still burns the same old way.
It is the sooty stain that slides
between the tiles, and always finds
the uniform hung out to dry.
It is the flurry of small feet,
to beg a palm-sheath, plug the gaps
between the tiles before it pours.
that dash next door
Nights with no sleep at all,
wondering whether the books stacked
on the wooden plank in the corner
of the room will be soaked.
It is the kerosene lamp’s dread
of every faint and passing breeze,
that holds its ground and will not yield
until the very final breath.
It is the greed of chipped-rim pots
that gulp, unsated, hurrying,
the rain that falls inside the house.
It is the dampness of the sack
of jute spread on the dung-smeared floor.
It is the rattle, quick and cold,
of teeth, when in half-sleep the chill
slips through the mat and wraps me whole
and shakes me stiff with shivering.
The broken hopes of faded underclothes
that hang and sway
on the line tied over the hearth.
It is the grief that pours, heart-torn,
before the ones who laugh at one
umbrella warped by broken rib.
More bare than this, how can I draw
my rains? And how, any longer,
shall I keep time
with these rain-songs of yours?
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