Poetry of the day

    A Bombay Morning

Deep months

of Monsoons in Bombay.

Raining since morning;

grey lowering sky, grey inward sea, mists,

and a blurred city.

I sit watching a tall building

under construction, indifferent, proud

under the pelting rain.

There are many such nearby;

beachhead of a new lifeform,

already triumphant.

We converse, they tell me,

with abiding forces, earth`s bedrock,

unseen motions, limits to things;

we will be here when much is gone,

since we are the expression

of history`s main intent;

we are of the domain of immortality,

of reigning gods, titans, great kings:

and you are a fleck of passing existence,

a drying bird dropping

of foreign migrating flocks,

a low networth individual,

a substance not caught

by nets of history,

like a raindrop