Sonnet-In Melancholia

'Tis Summer-time this year in its peak form; There is no sign of leaves green, buds or flow’rs; One's sweaty-skin could raise exanthems warm; with water scarce, none can afford good show’rs. Dry drumstick-fruits hang down from twigs so dry; Papaya tree has not a single fruit; The Moon has turned shapeless tonight; I cry; ' The sky has clouds that look as black as soot.” The place is airless; there's no noise of Birds; My Allergy has reached a sorry stage; And all I eat is rice with pickles, curds; A battle 'gainst Nature, how can I wage? Yet, things are settling down in God’s queer ways; I feel as though these are my last sad days.