Mother every day this time
of the year, the storm raging,
gnashing is a repast, folly to
many and the rains beat even
the meteorological forecasts.
Thunder and storm
Thunder and storm.
Cyclones in a neighbouring country
lash bodies, floods ensnare children, men
and women. Mother everywhere the floods sink into
an island, as houses are smothered into whirlpool
We avoid the looks of guilt. What can we do
but with flailing hands pray for weather beaten
souls, even as the newspapers ask for money
to be donated for respite.
Who are those suffering
Who are those climbing trees
to make homes
Who are those delving deep into hearts
that do not exist?