I mean your villa, bungalow,
Is it across the sea,
On that seashore
And when come you, the trees start shaking violently,
Branches blown away,
Twigs and boughs fallen
On the ways
And the roads getting blocked
Just in connivance with the whirlwind and the storm,
The cyclone and the low pressure of the monsoon,
Coming like a very fast bowler,
Stumping out the wickets
And the batsman clean bowled,
Struck and fallen
Going to the pavillion,
Could not see the ball,
Just the bat went across in the air
And the umpires even trailing
To see the speed,
Just like some crack mail express bus
Or a long distance-runner train.
Mr. Tornado, you with the French-cut beards,
I fear you, sir,
In talking with you,
Some may take you as for Mr. Tycoon,
But you tycoon not, Mr.Typhoon
And where your beloved Katrina
I can see you coming with a great speed,
Shaking the trees,
Flattening the things, blowing away,
The tin roofs rattling
As if the hanumans jumping over,
With a velocity of your own
Where do you live you, sir,
Are you an Indian or a foreigner,
Who are you,
Who are you,
O man with the Fench-cuts beards,
Looking grave-grave,
I fear to talk with you, sir?