Phailin Coming

The birds are twittering and whispering, Seeking shelter from, Cranes flying high and returning To their nests, Crows in a harsh voice Telling of the forthcoming disaster, The winds conspiring and howling, Shaking the trees violently, Sea waves swaying and surging, Ready to strike as landfalls, Clouds floating, gathering and massing, Ready to burst timelessly, Rains splattering With the big-big never-ending drops, Rivers to swirl and overflow As unable to control and contain in excessive waters And the man-made hazards In the form of wires and towers to take a toll on. Sir Phailin, gathering in the distant, in the seas, Far off seas visible from Orissa, Sending signals to the weather men and the frog men That I am coming, Talking over the phone Warning the telegraph department men, Sending telegrams Or like a dacoit Getting the post-card sent across That I am coming Not with American Katrina or Swetana But as a far-east man With his Mongoloid face, A ruthless Tartar He is coming With his bulgy stomach And the French-cut beards on the chin, A black belter, a martial arts specialist, Challenge him not. Take him for Mr. Tycoon not, As he not a rich man of the world, Nor has the assets, But Mr.Tornado, A devastator, I mean Mr.Typhoon, Owing hierarchy and genealogy To storm, tempest, cyclone Turned into a tornado or a typhoon Uncontrollable, The pressure one of high pressure As for the black deeds of man, His sea beaches and restaurants, Tourist spots and picnic spots And the deforestation done. Man fallen at the foot of his And he drunken with his power To toss and puff off Whichever comes on his way, The lamp-posts uprooted, Boughs broken, Roofs blown away, Towers crashed, Houses damaged, Ships helpless before, Unable to furrow or plough, Sinking, capsizing, The crew men sending SOS, So ruthless and full of prowess That he can shake it well, Man helpless before him And the world a ground of his tandava, Destruction, doom and desertion.