Trouble, by Tom Mukasa

Trouble

The rain pummels ta-ta, ta-ta,
hurling itself menacingly towards earth's loam,
as if chased from its abode,
to a side that is as dry as a bone,
or as fulfilled as the blue-green waters,
the drops divide into splinters,
which the surface sucks hungrily,
soon it is overwhelmed and saturates,
sometimes the rains are but sprinkles,
collecting dust into small wet-balls,
much like the sparrow's mud bolus,
that it uses to make its nest,
escaping piety and comfort,
our troubles are like the rains,
troubles are an embodiment of the gods,
the troubled is a lone sojourner,
facing fate's visage,
turning away you only get kicks of impunity,
troubles are a nourishment,
from the rains,
they force open compactness,
the release is welcome for plants,
whose roots are able to find nutrients,
troubles are the torrential rains,
screaming, howling and troubling,
behind which is profusion, invention,
and a tranquility thereafter. 

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