in lands where rivers once did flow,
now only trails of dust do show.
yet, with holi’s festive cheer,
we throw water without fear.
the wells are dry, the taps do gasp,
but still, in color, hands we clasp.
“we need to save!” the wise men cry,
but come holi, their words we defy.
“let’s paint the town,” they say with glee,
forgetting the thirst of the parched tree.
the irony, it seems, is lost,
as we celebrate, nature pays the cost.
so here’s a thought, a novel creed,
let’s throw seeds and not the deed.
for every splash that’s gone astray,
may a new plant grow, and lead the way.
ignore the parched lands, the rivers that weep,
for today, we have colors—and promises we can’t keep.
“save water!” they plead, but what’s the fun in that?
let’s fill our balloons, our pichkaris, and vats.
the water might be scarce, but our spirits are high,
we’ll worry about droughts when the wells truly run dry.
so dance in the puddles of yesterday’s rain,
and let not the cries of scarcity bring us pain.
for holi comes but once a year, you see,
and we’ll celebrate with water—while the last drop is free.