The rain clouds – they have gathered and they've blotted out the sun.
The rain clouds – they are gathered but the rain has not begun.
It is warm and it is humid, and the cloying air is still.
So the breezes are not blowing – but we hope that soon they will.
We wait in expectation of the breeze that ruffles leaves,
We wait with skin that's fevered and with mind that still believes.
We wait in meditation for the rain that's coming soon.
We wait, with perspiration, on this torrid afternoon.
Will the god of thunder, lightning bless the city with his rain?
Will our hopes and our beseeching be regarded – or in vain?
Will the tempest shake the branches, will the heavens break and pour?
Will we only sweat and suffer, unrequited, even more?
So the maiden waits for lover, who is tardy in his love.
So the shaman does his rain-dance, for the being up above.
Yet the leaves are still in silence, and the tempest is deferred,
As throughout these heated islands, all our prayers go unheard.
Will he hurry to his Radha, who is waiting for his touch?
Will he answer adoration? Is she asking for too much?
She is parched and she is fevered. She is restless and in pain.
Will her quencher, who is Krishna, be her jilter yet again?
You can hear the flute he's playing, in the distance, in the dark...
To the tune that he is playing, with his Radha, we can hark...
But alas, she is uncoupled – and she waits for him in vain.
He has found another gopi. There is little to explain.
It is summer – and we swelter, here in Brooklyn, in the Bronx,
In Manhattan, Staten Island and in Queens – as do the monks,
Who will suffer and be silent, as they offer of their hurts,
While we suffer as did Radha – as we offer of our words.