The monsoon cloud swooped low
to **** her
and the night seemed to wear
the darkest cloak
Three miles down south
she had gone to the weekly haat
for half a litre of earth oil
thru mud as thick as her desire
for a small glow in her thatched hut
When she reached the stream
she paused on the brink
and then like an added note
to the music of rain
her swan little frame
glided to the other bank
The wind was shivering
but she was warm in the dream of
one small light in her home
to **** the demon of dark