Perhaps

While the cosmos as always
Glows on and off like day and night,
The seasons are changing.
Waiting through for the arrival of the
The end of this wait, rummaging my old
Dry forgotten verses, I sift through for rains.
Whatever I find, I wring them out till their spirit
Begins to drip word by word to fill that
Empty antique wine bottle you bought
At the Sunday flea market off an old lady.
 
On one side of the window blushing with
The curtains you had hand stitched upcycling
Your pale pink cotton sari, lazes your
Verdant green cushion on the woven grass mat,
Reclining fatigues against the wall
As if in a deep thought about time and existence.
Right next to it lays my black cushion
Gazing far and long, as if on some watch unto
The blurry horizons, waiting on and on
Every single day for the arrival of a tomorrow.
 
On a matte stainless steel tray, alongside
That wine bottle, your turquoise coffee mug
Stands next to (but a little away from)
My wrinkle-scratched and chipped ochre cup
Like an actor nervously anticipating for the curtain
To be raised, almost any time now.
Throat’s beginning to feel like dry barren dust
Wondering when some freak storm might
Stir it all up and take it passionately into its
Wild tempestuous embrace and unhinged waltz.
 
This is where I wait for you to arrive,
Once together, we’ll toast a spill,
Each of that long maturing rain-worded wine.
The stalemated season within the house
Might just perhaps change with the petrichor*
Of our rain-wined breaths coming alive again
Together and next to each other for real.
Finally the parched vigil of these walls
Might once again be showered with
The cool droplets of a handful of home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
*Petrichor is the earthy heady fragrance one smells in the air just before it is to rain. 

This is an adaptive translation of the one I wrote in Hindi. If interested in the Hindi version here's the link.

http://chandlafzrozaanaa.blogspot.in/2017/09/blog-post.html