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.
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