The Monsoon Wedding
the cool breeze comes with the fragrance of welcome...
the trees are bowed and shower the flowers...
the thunders drum the beats of celebration...
the mayurs stage their dance...
the maendaks tune their gazals...
the lightnings flash like that of the cameras...
astride the lone white cloud like the Airavat among the elephants...
holding the thunderbolt; handsome than Indran himself...
arrives the Royal Groom.
She has been longing for him
the sultry and smoldering maiden,
for her fertility to be fruitified,
for him to quench her thirst of passion...
she has been longing with the burning desire...
singing her melancholy through the mynaa,
sweating out her tears; guarding her patience...
There... thats no mirage, dear; here comes your Man...
With the wind playing the nadham
and the melam of the thunders;
with the trees showering the akshadha
and the croaks recital of mantra;
the Bride and the Groom bond,
in the horizon at the end of the ocean!
He caressed her gently with the drizzle
arousing the earthly scent.
Her tender heart frantically flutters
and runs for shelter;
her shyness draws the umbrella;
but of what use is it in the torrent of passion?
Its a drizzle at times and a storm at some...
He percolates deep into her
seeping in life into her womb...
The next dawn she blooms with the dewy sweat still on...
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