A Letter to the Thundercloud

Emerald-strewn, the sacred pool lies still,

Where golden lotuses, in bloom, arise—

Their stems, smooth rods of chrysoberyl,

Tremble beneath the birds that mesmerize.

The geese, contented, drift in gleaming rows,

Forgetful of Manasa’s distant shore;

They know no grief—your face, once glimpsed, bestows

A peace that wandering wings seek no more.

Beyond, a hill of pleasure lifts its head,

Its crest with sapphires burning like the skies,

Fringed soft with golden plantains gently spread

In groves where longing in the shadow lies.

For near to you, bright herald of the rain,

I see that mountain, fair, and sigh with pain—

My love reclines there, joy upon her brow,

And I, bereft, am but a shadow now.

Here leans an ashoka, red with trembling buds,

Beside it, kesara in fragrant fire,

And kurubaka hedges hem the floods

Of madhavi vines that climb and never tire.

One leans to feel her foot's forgotten grace,

Another yearns to kiss her wine-stained lips,

Feigning thirst—ah, cunning their embrace,

While I drink absence in long, bitter sips.

Between them lies a perch of crystal hue,

Gold at its base, where gems like bamboo gleam;

There rests her friend, the necked-in-indigo,

And dances when her clapping hands redeem

The failing day, her bracelets’ silver chime

Summoning dusk like temple bells through time.

If near the door you spy, in tender dye,

The conch, the lotus—symbols drawn with care—

Then know the place where once my heart did lie,

Now dulled, for I no longer wander there.

The lotus, when the sun begins to fall,

Folds in its light—it mourns, and so do all.

Now shrink thy form, O cloud, to elephant-small,

And settle on that peak with sapphire eyes.

Then, flickering like fireflies in their thrall,

Glance gently through the halls where silence lies.

Let your pale lightning, soft and secret, roam—

And light, for one brief breath, my vanished home.