Frogs: A poem

When the muddy pond banks start drying up

in the first week of February daze

And the bristles of Acacia prick the heels

father says, it’s time to stir the harpoon from its sleep.

Some hibernated from the cool sands of December

are rising from their comatose in dreamy rusty barks

and hardly moving from their earthen beds

find the wrath of iron striking into their heads.

People are forgetting that a new age is invading

its sheen bright as fish, its touch hard as steel

like a robot hunter stalking through its mechanical claws

shrieking at old streets where lazy drunkards lie.

Soon the metallic summer will shine its torch upon our faces

our feet will freeze from this awesome rabid change

And then the hunters will be laughing their guts over our beds

their spears marking a shadow over our heads.