Monsoon Magic

For long months the sun had scorched,
The cattle withering and the earth parched,
The land and its people look up to the skies,
The tillers of the soil stifling their cries.

At long last, clouds in the yonder loomed,
Presently, a fiery voice from the heavens boomed.
Sparkling strikes presaged the fall of thunder,
Reaching the terrain as if to split it asunder.

The children danced to the clatter of rain,
The farmer smiled, for his work went not in vain.
For, months and more, he had slaved,
For another year, his family and he, were saved.

Elsewhere in the towns, where work is ever steady,
People and authorities were caught unready,
Administration's inefficiency causing an outrage,
As the drains clogged, elevating the sewage.

Swathes of countryside having been showered,
The rains stopped, crops alive and croppers empowered,
Having spent, the monsoon moved on,
The mystery continues, for ever and anon.

Ode to the Cow-dung

If there is one that I will not let go unsung,
'Tis the tradition of India, the bountiful dung,
The magnificent cow leaves its deposit,
'Tis a holy animal, ergo, 'tis holy shit.

An animal of the farm, the cud chewed,
Non-veg and oil, rightly eschewed,
Exits from its rear, by Nature's law,
The heap that Hindus hold in awe.

Strewn straw is what is you need to rake,
Into the dung you shall knead, then bake,
Throw into the hearth this lovely patty,
If you want your fill of coffee latte.

Alas, the days of the patty are long gone,
The human handling a dung is frowned upon,
But in some ways, the dung is better than old,
As Nature's fertiliser, it is bought and sold.