Friday, 17 February 2012


She stands like the ripe grain
bathed in harvest sunlight
a golden smile dancing with the wind;
approaches at dusk
moving like the shadow of the hills
to take me into the night.
And my love is like water
now gushing down river
now halted at the gates
now spilling over
swirling around her feet
and disappearing underground
with monsoon-flight.
My love is a breeze
heaving sighs across valley
touching cheek
in the ‘cannot stay’ way;
and my love
is also the arc of the sickle
a dull pounding
separating grain from husk,
it is like the earth
keeping watch
drawing all things into its bosom.

[From the collection 'Epistles: 1984-1996']


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