Five years crept past,
Five long Summers
With the length of five Monsoons!
And again I hear these under-earth streams
Rolling down inside their dark curvy roads
With a wish to come out
as a mountain-spring somewhere...
From dark to Light,
This journey now seems endless...
With a soft inland-murmur, I hear them say,
We are here, down below somewhere...
Once again I search for them
And scan the steep, lofty cliffs,
The wild secluded scenes
And a thought of more deep seclusion
Touches me that connects
The vast stretch of dried land
With the quiet of the sky
The day has come
When the bird folds it's tiring wings
And reposedly sits upon a high tree
To learn about the horizons
Here under the dark sycamore..
Nothing seems real
And there is no route homewards.
Once again I view, lines of trees,
Which at this season, almost dried
Pale, bent down with the heat of
Hard Summer Sun, lose themselves
To the groves and copses of these pastoral farms.
Wreath of smoke , sent up in silence
From among these trees!
With the uncertainty that clings
To the wings of the single hawk
Circling over the fields
Unknown to it's destination,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods
Or of some hermit's cave, where by
The burnt ashes of a fire long extinguished,
The hermit sits alone...
Counting the five years that have past...
Monsoon that came only for two months
And the fifty eight months of Long Summer
That is reluctant to pass by....
