written By
Burning with the evening sun — a shapeless, scarlet stain
I ask you what your name could mean, and you whisper: “Rain.”
The city’s drenched and stinking armpits choke me with cellophane.
Sweating, gasping, heaving, panting, I keep on screaming, “Rain!”
The pitter-patter, splosh and splatter, the pothole-stumbled sprain
I ask them, children, “Who’s your mother?” they giggle and say, “She’s Rain.”
Lovers, trees, lovers of trees: the forest-flower-chain
I weave for them an olive branch; I give ’em a seed of rain.
The clothesline, the potted-plant, the storm of leaves insane —
We close our eyes to a world of clamour, and quietly watch it rain.
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Camellia Paul has a Masters in Comparative Literature from Jadavpur University, India with specialisation in Canadian literature and translation studies. She currently works as a Senior Instructional Designer in a multinational ed-tech and professional services company. Her poetry and art have appeared in books and magazines, as well as online journals like Livewire, The Fabulist, The Passionfruit Review, Setu, Troublemaker Firestarter, among others. She also has published photographs in The Telegraph, Kolkata, The City Key, and Setu. Apart from being passionate about art, owls, and gardening, Camellia loves reading, listening to music, and exploring cultures.
Facebook: camellia.paul | Instagram: @cammeowl | LinkedIn: camellia-paul-abb36559
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