Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover you and hide you.
The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in your ears.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would dive in the water.
If you must be mad and leap to your death, come, O come to my
It is cool and fathomlessly deep.
It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless.
There in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are
Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death.
I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands, tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.
I did not say a word. It was the bird that sang unseen from the
The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road, and the bees came humming one by one.
On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was
opened and the worshipper had begun his chants.
With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow.
I stood with my empty can.
I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the river.
Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar. The morning wore on and I did not come near you.
I was walking by the road, I do not know why, when the noonday
was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind.
The prone shadows with their out-stretched arms clung to the feet of the hurrying light.
The koels were weary of their songs.
I was walking by the road, I do not know why.