Waiting.

I can smell the rains in the air
I can see it in the multiplying critters
The dresses adhering to perspiring backs
Kids hankering for evening fritters.

And yet the pregnant Clouds labour
From Gwalior to Delhi
Without delivering
The wilful rains in their belly.

The air hangs still,heavy. 
Let us find a midwife
with magic potions
Or even better- a way with the knife.

Let us cut them open
We have been awash in sweat enough.
A different drenching would be welcome
I am sick of the cloud's bluff.