There Is Always Monsoon, After the Scorching Summer Heat

Wet eyes dripping drops, Reddened in the heat of grief; 'O' baby, my baby, Why were you born, In this poor man's house? Nothing is in order, No stable job in hand; The work I know is out dated, In this modern world; In my past, People lived for people, Now is material world; We live in dark, In this bright world; Daughter stood in anguish, Gazed at father's face; Hugged him solacing, "Oh dad, how lucky I am, Born as your daughter; You are shore of flowing lake, Refuge of our peaceful home; There is always monsoon, After the scorching summer heat; Poverty is a challenge We will learn to vanquish over time; We shall overcome, When we all learn to live, With what we have; Job is job none new or old, It's all about when, why and, For whom you carry; As cobbler can't sell, His hand stitched shoes, To a client who has taste Of brand named shoes; No money, no luxury Can buy love in life; The serenity and contentment, Strew sweet love in home; © Sadashivan Nair