The month of May

hot and humid days,

parched souls,

dusty roads and ways,

gaping manholes,

smoky unfiltered haze,

you talk of rain my friend,

my summer will not end,

perhaps it is the heart,

that has forgotten the art,

of how to reconcile,

with the world and its folks,

and laugh at their jokes.

Tell me O friend across the seas,

how come you enjoy the bees,

humming and droning,

when the sun is sinking,

taking away everything,

from you forever?

Tell me what's the meaning,

of summer rain,

except refreshed pain,

gnawing again and again...

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