Sun Behind the Clouds

WHEN the sun is behind the clouds,

You shudder at the appalling pall of grumpy clouds;

You wail inconsolably in wilderness

If the sun should be this grave, callous and weak-willed.

You curse the sun and swear never to turn to its light

But all the while, the sun rests behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You befriend strangest elements

Overwhelmed with oblivion of the sun.

And the sun is reduced only to a mysterious legend, a distant decayed memory.

Then proudly snuffing the flame of erstwhile passion

You sing with pomp and set the sun on pyre;

You deem yourself a martyr and all your imposed ill-belief of the virtuous sun, a pride-filled martyrdom.

But all the while, the sun squats behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You stonily cut asunder the bond with Him

In a sheer denial that the clouds will ever shrink and recede;

You never believed in the sun and in His utmost scorching orb of passion…

Raise your brow and behold the sky once awhile—

The clouds would have parted in guilt

Then never veil your face in shame and snivel your remorse in sorrowful songs…

And never let your heart burn in pain.

If the sun’s heat is unendurably hot,

Let it burn your heart but in love…

As the sun behind the clouds who always burned for you

Sun behind the Clouds

WHEN the sun is behind the clouds,

You shudder at the appalling pall of grumpy clouds;

You wail inconsolably in wilderness

If the sun should be this grave, callous and weak-willed.

You curse the sun and swear never to turn to its light

But all the while, the sun rests behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You befriend strangest elements

Overwhelmed with oblivion of the sun.

And the sun is reduced only to a mysterious legend, a distant decayed memory.

Then proudly snuffing the flame of erstwhile passion

You sing with pomp and set the sun on pyre;

You deem yourself a martyr and all your imposed ill-belief of the virtuous sun, a pride-filled martyrdom.

But all the while, the sun squats behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You stonily cut asunder the bond with Him

In a sheer denial that the clouds will ever shrink and recede;

You never believed in the sun and in His utmost scorching orb of passion…

Raise your brow and behold the sky once awhile—

The clouds would have parted in guilt

Then never veil your face in shame and snivel your remorse in sorrowful songs…

And never let your heart burn in pain.

If the sun’s heat is unendurably hot,

Let it burn your heart but in love…

As the sun behind the clouds who always burned for you

Mid-Summer's Reverie

AS I got out for work one morning, I felt a touch of fresh summery zephyr gently fanning on my face. The earth was coloured in a natural hue; the lush, luxuriant green vegetation bore unfailing witness to it. A pungent smell of dampness wafted past and a light drizzle rendered the dale a disarmingly dampened look. Women with swarthy skin, armed with an arsenal of spades, scythes and sickles decked those fervid fields in a magnificent mosaic, while taut-muscled men wrought behind the yokes. Children were hard-pressed at play—it was time for paper-boats and not a least tinge of inclination to forgo that moment was apparent on their faces, which were mostly donned in carefree smiles.  Even the birds sang their best summer songs while the boughs they perched on played music in the background with the platter of rain and rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then, I spotted a scarecrow. It was in rags with sunken eyes, but it had its arms wide open and ready for a quick bear hug. I was wondering if it hadn't been hard for it keeping itself still and still doing its job—to scare crows and aught at all!

Just then, my eyes began to play with me. Possibly like a psychedelic effect, I saw it transform into a lovely lass. I could barely help falling for her with—
Her effulgent eyes embellished in mascara,
Her silky raven tresses cascading loose,
Her majestic mien wrought in rouge,
Her succulent lips done in affluent peach,
Her manicured fingers conspicuously reposing on the lap,
Her svelte body adorned in vogue…
I wondered if she wasn’t someone from Cannes, up for the next edition’s a million-dollar coverpage close-up in a leading fashion mag. She was truly irresistible and the look she wore drew me closer to her, quite inadvertently. With every new step I advanced towards her, my body began to shudder. It was a sweet strange feeling. And by the time I was only an inch or two away from her, I could scarcely lift my brows and look into her eyes. Her look was sharp and disconcerting. Before I could do aught silly, a beep in my cellular phone broke the spell. I was standing right before the scarecrow in rags.

Eventually, I realized that it must have kept its arms open perhaps it felt neglected and lonely. Or perhaps, its open arms were its dying attempt to convey its woes of loneliness and muffled whispers of wanting love. And I was utterly overjoyed that I could at least decode the stuck-in-the-solitude scarecrow’s bottled-up emotions even though I half decided to take it as my La belle Dame Sans Merci and then, forget it all.