By Sharadhi Hegde
A grey day, a dull sky,
Bettered only by the clouds -
those soft beings
with hearts of steel
so hard & cold, yet of gold;
a metal, nonetheless.
They list to human cries,
those pale echoes of troubled souls haunted by shadows -
of hate, of love,
of joy, of sorrow,
of hope,
For an eternity.
And now, the clouds
have listened enough.
They bare their steeled, hardened hearts & let loose their own torrent
of cries, heard & unheard,
of despair, felt & suppressed,
of rage, quietened, contained,
so oppressing, for any to bear -
much less for those
milky messengers of the Heavens, bearing their anguish
of separation,
unending and eternal.
Years of torrentous passion, of agony,
They release with unbridled vehemence;
Untainted, untamed by the cries of mortals -
the cries they spent eternity listening to.
Down below, in the downpour
of the cries of the clouds,
Untainted by rain,
unaffected by thunderbolts,
Their faces lit by the spark
of lovelocked limerence,
They kiss. The rain
rages on, and the poets rejoice.
They have found a love "love" enough
for their sonnets, their limericks
of lovers, lost and found.
And yet,
The clouds,
the angels of the skies,
lie forgotten by the poets, forsaken by the Gods, shunned by the mortals, unheeded, unsung.
There are always poems to be found
on lovers in the rain;
But who is there to write for the clouds,
for their anguish, their cries
By Sharadhi Hegde
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