The gods
smile,
Not out of
pity but because they are drowsy with the rich red wine,
Languidly,
soaking up the luxuries of immortal life,
They care
not.
The mortal
are near death now,
And all for
a drop of life from the sky above,
The fields
are barren and dry,
Tears
of pleading in their brown black eyes.
The gods awake,
Their
drowsiness having fled
And they
listen silently in distress,
To the
unmistakabke happiness in the whispers of death.
The skies
open and showers like never before,
Bringing
more terror to the dying souls yet healing wounds sore,
But before
Indra watches the fields quench their year long thirst,
He mocks the
open defeat of death, first.
Sanjana George XII
