SEASONS OF INDIA

The season is summer,
When you want to touch the floor,
it is the season which would open,
all windows and doors.

This season is of mango,
The king of all fruits,
The clothes become lose and thin,
After the winter’s tight heavy suits.

With the sun overhead,
The rich under their cooler’s angrily lay,
But the poor under their straw huts,
Remain happy and gay.

After three months of scorching sun,
Comes the mild autumn,
The leaves begin to fall,
And drunkards open their rum.

There are no more ripe mangoes,
And the clothes become full sleeved shirts,
And the brown leaves over earth,
Seems like flowers on the graves of the hurt.

The sun is not exactly overhead,
And the coolers have no use,
“we would soon have to come out,”
warmers are of the view .

then comes the winter,
the season of ‘ice’,
everyone wants to hibernate,
whether human or mice.

The angry warmers are taken out,
And disinfected under the sun,
“Wear your pullover throughout”,
mom tells her teenage son.

The sun becomes horizontal,
And there are no mangoes to eat,
The farmers make preparation,
For the cultivation of wheat.

Then comes the spring,
The best season of all,
The flowers bloom,
And the insects begin to crawl.

The ice melts,
Sun proves its existence,
But the alternate hot and cold whether,
Weakens the body’s resistance.

The cities become orchards,
The country looks like a painted scenery,
The roads are beautiful,
And my India is full of greenery.