Bengal and the hills

The northern hills roar in thunder,
Flash fire on forest tops, burning
Bright: shielded in clouds darker than smoke;
Under cries of a dying earth, trees yell,
We? Reflect: a shadow of rhododendrons
Matting the floor with their lives,
None illuminate, silent hills echo girgles
Of springs, whispering to conspire,
As if to wait- a moment united and
The hills would burst, in flood: some
Estranged in sorrow, others blood. All
Because mischief was caused by
The monkey yelling at the nodding baboons.

Reflecting sunlight

Here flies feel the frail sunset more and
Barren winds call  ardous thoughts:
Blue hills, green fields, brown dust and white rivers;
Even with flesh on fire or wounded necks,
The light dips colour from clouds, from white
To orange and red, the sky gently  turns to
A darker canvas with dotted stars: a framework
For the moon; still pleasant on eerie whispers,
Crying dogs, howling foxes and unpleasant screeches,
Bringing joy from a reflection of sunlight.