The humid Silence

The rain arrives like whispered grief, Soft tears upon a trembling leaf. No golden blaze, no morning sun Just heat that presses, never done. Clouds gather close with heavy wings, A storm that sighs, not roars or sings. The streets exhale a humid breath, Half-life between the birth and death. The rooftops hiss, the pavements sweat, As if the sky won’t cool just yet. This is the heat that hides its flame, A quiet fire with no name. No sun to scorch, no wind to chase, Just steam and silence in its place. We walk through dusk that wears a mask A monsoon wrapped in endless tasks. And in the haze, we understand The sky can burn without the land.