Author: Editor

The shrills of cicadas,
Pierces through the concrete,
On a hushed eve.
When pregnant with thoughts
The clock ticked on,

July rains;

The spitting July rain

When tiny tadpoles leapfrog to life,

The smoky sky above

Obscures its pristine blue blanket – slowly

As the clouds above melt, I then remember

When the December air ruffles your hair
When the dried leaves touch your feet
crying for a few droplets of water
and praying
not to be flown away by winter flair

Sweat drains my body
as if a water fall eroding
the red soil of a naked hill;
Pungent, slimy, the quasi-liquid drips
oozing out fatigue,