clicked during the evenings: cloud

when the hay has been cut

Call me back when the hay has been cut

and there are no sorrows in between to find.

as the Elephanta wind crosses by,

I’ve got nothing of monsoons to call at my doorstep.

rains weren’t the same anymore.

the crops of hope have mouldered to my needs.

after gathering this much by the chaos of plastic talks,

there’s nothing to sow from the remuneration of yesterday’s rain.

call me back when the hay has been cut

and there are no shouts in between to rhyme.