Sonnet-In Melancholia

'Tis Summer-time this year in its peak form;
There is no sign of leaves green, buds or flow’rs;
One's sweaty-skin could raise exanthems warm;
with water scarce, none can afford good show’rs.

Dry drumstick-fruits hang down from twigs so dry;
Papaya tree has not a single fruit;
The Moon has turned shapeless tonight;
I cry; ' The sky has clouds that look as black as soot.”

The place is airless; there's no noise of Birds;
My Allergy has reached a sorry stage;
And all I eat is rice with pickles, curds;
A battle 'gainst Nature, how can I wage?

Yet, things are settling down in God’s queer ways;
I feel as though these are my last sad days.

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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