Monsoon, with the Devil’s Face
When monsoon roars, it ain't for show,
It's every wound the land won't outgrow.
It carves the sky with iron breath,
Not life, but trial, not peace — near death.
They prayed for rain, a soft caress,
But what arrived was wilderness.
Not whispers now, but jagged cries,
The devil wears the wet disguise.
A sacred flame where silence burned,
Now howls for all that's overturned.
The land splits open, truths emerge,
The river swells with ancient urge.
You called it god — now see it glare,
Its justice floods through poisoned air.
A demon shaped from broken trust,
Born of mud, and dreams turned dust.
For concrete vows that cracked and lied,
For every wetland colonized.
For every tree you pulled in greed,
The monsoon comes not just to feed.
It drags the lies through choking clay,
And drowns the debts you tried to pay.
The soil, once soft, now spits in rage,
A drowned revolt, a flooded stage.
Its scream is not just water's cry —
It’s memory that won’t comply.
Its ancestors rise in the churn,
With every root you chose to burn.
No god can tame what earth reclaims,
No dam can hold ancestral names.
It marches in with fire and flood,
With cursed prayers and river blood.
It don’t knock now, it takes the floor,
Enters your homes through every door.
With grace turned grave, with silence dead,
It dines where kings once bowed their head.
Each crack a mouth, each leak a call,
Of rising tides that drown it all.
A devil clothed in rain’s old gown,
To rip your towers, drown your crown.
It didn't bloom in soft-lit snow,
It found its face in shadows' glow.
A storm that learned to bite and burn,
For every time you failed to learn.
No savior came, no light from sky,
Just rising mud, and reasons why.
And from this grief, a power wakes —
Not for mercy. But what it takes.
Now every "no" the river screamed,
Becomes the flood you never dreamed.
In gold of paddy, ash of dirt,
It wears your cost, it knows your hurt.
But still it comes — with devil’s grace,
To take its time, to claim its place.
So write of it in future lore —
How monsoon came, and was no more
A gift. But curse. With a burning soul,
That turned your scars to blackened gold.
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