The Waiting Dust

The road is inert, the formicids

Unwearyingly cross, carrying 

A sprig for the Colony. The firmament 

Is parched, cloudless; the wind

Draughts like the cumulus. 

Few ligneous huts slumber,

Long undefiled, unwakened

For a long time, exhausted in

Loneliness. A few, perhaps whisper

At night among the stars.

A deserted landscape seems 

To have left years of life behind.

Now, it seems to have lost 

The curiosity to live.

The zephyr whiffs through 

An alignment known to her;

The fragrance promises to stay

Still within her.

The mundane dust, 

Bereft of droplets, 

Waits for petrichor.

She was omnipresent, yet 

Coaxed behind the rain.

Without the rain, the dust

Desiccates, beseeching the stars

To kiss the cumulus. The nights

Became restless; days heaved

Aloud, crescendo brewing.

Hearing her, the first droplets

Sprinkle for a few seconds,

Inundating curves to flow

Like a river, aerating again. 

After the flow—a rivulet, 

Lingering still in amidst

The desert, whispering to

The wind, spreading fragrance.

By Orbindu Ganga

From: India

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