Tauktae
The cyclonic storm on its way
to Gujarat
unleashes a spurt of shivers
in Mumbai.
From my window louvers
the coconut trees quake
like flagellants
to the truculence of the twister.
The weakened ones fall:
ruinous to flesh and freehold.
There is apoplexy in its explosion.
The ambient air re-echoes its rage.
Who has wounded its waff?
Is the fey call the only quick fix?