The sun
our great dictator of life and death
brings forth light
too stunning in summer.
Waves of heat,
in turn, continuous defeat
seemingly never ending,
our sombre intermissions
come too few.
Every scorched morning
is embraced by a great many.
Our land’s signature repertoire
welcomed like an old friend
each blinding day.
Yet come the day’s first hours,
we varied few
find the season dull.
We do not receive warmth
but heat.
Nor do we see the true colours of our world.
The rays too indifferent,
all glow
with the same glistening shade.
And I cannot fathom the validity of seasons here.
Heat and humidity
and unchanging light
too enduring,
our remaining seasons
of soft winds
and comforting coolness and colour,
too short
and dearly missed.
I can only marginally bear
when the coming months
are of great appeal.
And I ought to move away some day,
to truthful four seasons.
For a long summer here
is no match
for our delicate souls.