Stop crying, blue yonder. Your tears become tasty As they rest on my tongue, After drenching my lips. |Caption| //THE DROPS Welkin turns dark and dreary as the clouds hide its face with silver locks. The tear gas and bombs. Blood and gore. Flesh on platters. Heartbreak and disdain. Loads and loads. Oh, the clouds rush, so that the sky doesn't glance at the living corpse. The branches sprint, so that the dew drops don't rest here. But, the mulish azure peeps - the demise that's called, farmers who are wailing, wrists that are slashed, souls being blazed, green lives that are pollarded. Trucks and trucks. It's rage bursts out, with thunders, that are sinister. It weeps. Those drops, scatter. The pain, scatters. They rest on your hands, legs, lips, face. They rest on the cloths, clips, stairs. They rest on the leaves, soil, earthen pots.
