Rain

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.

Born and raised in Calcutta, Camellia Paul is an incredibly lazy, daydreaming millennial. She lives with her parents, and her five-year-old feline brother. She has published her translation, fiction, and poetry in anthologies, magazines, and online journals including Livewire, Setu, and The Antonym. Her artworks and photography also feature regularly in The Telegraph, Kolkata, San Antonio Review, The City Key, among others. Camellia seeks self-expression and exploration in her creative endeavours. She is also an eccentric neologist and she tends to reject anything that lacks humour. Apart from obsessing about owls, art, and Nature, she loves reading, listening to music, and exploring cultures. Contact email: [email protected]