Beauty or the Beast

A dry trickle flows through the wide river bed,

But let the monsoon come

No one will dare there tread,

As the rain gods beat their wardrums.

What now is bare stone,

Let there be a heavy shower,

A high stone, like an isle, stands alone.

While in the desert, there will spring many a bower.

How we wait in earnest,

For the Gods to do us a heavenly favor.

We don’t know that others regard it as a pest.

They have to save their families by much labor.

We see the overflowing river on a desert bed as a boon.

Who heard the little boys cry?

The river had spelled his doom.

His fate will be mystery, until the river again becomes dry.

In the monsoons, we judge the river,

On its eternal beauty and smooth flow.

While in reality it is nothing but a quiver,

Very full of deadly arrows and about to explode.

The Sleeping Lady

Introducing the Lady.......

Through the open window, shot in the days first ray,
From a giant red sun, waking up just over the bay
The bright golden ray fell on a strange dark shape
While in the distace a rooster crowed off without a break
But the figure in the black cloth stirred not one little bit.
Not even when the sky was aglow from the flames that the sun had lit
Not even when the dog came in, barking, full of glee.
There was just a soft voice which spoke thus "Not now sweet, let me be"
The dog perhas did not speak the same tongue as this figure on the bed.
Because just then the dog started tugging on the sheets to reveal a head
Then the fine form of a sightly woman in her very prime
Wrestling with the dog, a lazy struggle to fall back into sleep sublime.
A half hearted struggle as a lazy struggle often turns out to be
The lady could do naught but yield and opened her eyes to see
The butterflies fluttering among the flowers, the squirrels on the trees.
The birds chirping their hearts away while babies crawl on their knees.
She could see far and wide, the horizon was a distant line
The day was beautiful to her eyes, truly the occassion must be divine
The sky was clear, a clear deep blue, not a cloud in sight
The morning was perfect, as a morning could be, in the distance flew a lone kite.
Alice walked upto the window, for that was the fair lady's name.
In the little village of St. Lauren, resting on the rocks, her beauty was of fame.
By the window, she sang a song, with a voice ever so soft,
If only a drowing sailor heard it, he would swim to the nearest coast.
Her eyes were beautiful and round emerald of the deep green kind,
Which even after a life of scouting, a treasure hunter will never find.
Her cheeks were round and soft, red under the sun, fair otherwise.
Many young men doted on her for her fine form, where they say one's beauty lies.
In such a place did this beauty live, where old grannies sprung fairy tales
To spur their children on to sleep, in their bosom they lay, dreaming of flowery dales