I remember a forgotten monsoon that never rained, br the land lay waiting like a lonenly child. br The dust is everywhere on the roads and the minds br the dust is heavy, it reflects no sunshine. br br But one can point a finger and tell 'There the river flowed', br but it is long dried and dead. br Dried up leaves or broken twigs br you crush them under your feet, br but then still do not forget, once they too had viens br where life flowed. br br Somewhere from north a wind might blow, br but pity there are no leaves left in the trees to blow. br br Flowers or leaves neither makes sense, br for what are colours to heat blinded eyes. br br The birds are dead and their flesh lies red, br though the worms don't care. br br Catch the cobra by the neck and stare, br hear a hiss if not dead, br and listen to the song of this land. br br Faces here strange or not br will bear a scar hardened of blood, br stare and feel the impulse of this land. br br But to the people here, br there is a paradise where, br the name of the land living call- br 'DEAD'.