The echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across the
dark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?
Sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth.
The nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of the
bamboo leaves are silent.
The labourers home from their fields spread their mats in the
courtyards.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?
55
It was mid-day when you went away.
The sun was strong in the sky.
I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went
away.
Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distant
fields.
The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my
room humming the news of many distant fields.
The village slept in the noonday heat. The road lay deserted.
In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died.
I glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name I
had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat.
I had forgotten to braid my hair. The languid breeze played with
it upon my cheek.
The river ran unruffled under the shady bank.
The lazy white clouds did not move.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
It was mid-day when you went away.
The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting.
The doves cooed among the dense leaves.
I was alone in my balcony when you went away.
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