As I Lay There Wasting.

Every endless afternoon I waste while lying sleepless,
is wasted more if left in vain without the breathless wind.
And if that wind has not yet bathed with the silent monsoon,
the garden warm with scent of pears is surely wasted too.
Exhaling wafts of warm perfume, every stretch of earth
reminds me how I used to breathe your hair more than the air,
and if those pears can tell me not the reason I must rest
afraid I am to say while yawning, myself am wasted too.

Last Monsoon

When the drops of rain shall deign
to cease descending on my land,
harken they shall not just vane
most sunrise but too days most bland.
Surely I shall miss most sorely
the scent of warm and humid earth,
and of my darling sweating only
to have my kisses fulfill her dearth.
Hard has been this monsoon dear,
dark have been my noons so grey,
but then I recall light so near
has never made more lifeless clay.
Pools shall linger, stand and wait
for all those steps of playful lovers,
wilted feet to warmth shall mate
and sun in greatest sight discover,
no more drops of earnest thought
nor ripple shall those mirror moons,
and all those days I dearly sought
shall depart with our last monsoon.