Under the plough's gentle jab,
It gives way, does the summer scab;
The soil, softened by a nudge,
Is willing to yield, willing to budge.
It's Monsoon again, the fields 'll be lush,
In the plains, as the rivers gush ...
The buried, the seed and the sower,
Rejoice as his feet sink lower;
Only the entrenched will pass the test
Of the flowing water and live the harvest.
It's Monsoon, the fields 'll be lush,
In the plains, as the rivers rush ...
The view having turned green in hue,
One gets wind of what's to ensue;
Spring, soon, will begin her dole,
And Monsoon retire, having played her role.
It's Monsoon, the fields are lush,
In the plains, it's all ablush ...
Having bid goodbye to the rains,
Time to fill the silos with the grains;
The green towered by the fruit and the flower,
Before long, the Sun will glower.
It'll be Monsoon again, post the curt hush,
For the plain, a new stroke of the brush ...
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