What happens when:
Ever shifting swirls bemoan;
Often pierced by unflinching metal birds now and then.
They dream of being a stone
Shaped, immutably, after the image of light
By a hundred metric tonnes of earth, fossil and bone
In fits of frustration Again and again
Ashen faced cumulonimbi roil again and again
And rain, there and then, again and again
But do these clouds truly toil?
And sweat rivers to become diamonds?
Are these really tears that drench the soil ?
Or have we been witnesses to a half-hearted vignette:
Describing a veritable foil
A season of pouring, failing to emulate
A thousand year’s broil ?