Monsoon In The Hills Poem by tharmingam khangrah

Nature suddenly wakes up to listen to the rain songs
To take a satiating peep at the soaking and drenching
Of man, buffaloes and the green sleepy surrounding.
Men wakes up early, women never seem to sleep
Worrying about their fields, their survival bowel
While frogs and crickets goes on throating undying jubilation.
Cultivation song sounds from every corner
Echoing away the pride of being born in the hills,
Fighting the swift wave of transition
A slow change; a better world, a sad lullaby.

Listening to the rain drops beating on the roof
Tuning my ears to the stories of grandpa
I used to dozed off often into the land of yore
Knowing nothing about the impending expulsion
Into the land of sky scrappers and motor world
Far from where grandpa sleeps an eternal slumber
Too far from the lovely monsoon mood of the hills.
Memory being a painful boon, it's useless to struggle
Trying to forget what we can never reinvent
But time has shaped even the the hardest rocks
Being mortals we were shaped to change with time
Grow up to see the painful burial of a tradition
Like the rotting of mushrooms in the monsoon rain.

A peaceful or a sad adieu no one knows for sure
The passing of time that has wiped away Civilizations.
Great and small streams merged to make angry rivers
Mighty rivers unite to make gigantic seas.
As that life in the hills become distant
Realization finally settles in its own force
That our lives are driven by the seasons of time.....