We who have walked deserted stubble fields on a December evening,
Who have seen over the field's edge a soft river woman scattering
Her fog flowers-they all are like some village girls of old-
We who have seen in darkness the akanda tree, the dhundul plant
Filled with fireflies, the moon standing quietly at the head of
An already harvested field-she has no yearning for that harvest;
We who have lived in the darkness of a long winter's night, who have
Heard wings flutter on a thatched roof in captivating night-
The smell of an ancient owl, now lost again in the darkness!
Who have understood the beauty of a winter's night-wings buoyed up
over
Fields brimming with deep joy, herons calling from aswattha tree
limbs;
We who have understood all this secret magic of life;
We who have seen wild geese escape injury from a hunter's bullet
And fly away into the horizon's gentle blue moonlight;
We who have placed a loving hand upon the sheaves of paddy;
Like the evening crows, we who returned home full of desire;
Smell of a baby's breath, grass, sunlight, a kingfisher, stars, sky-
We who were aware of these as we came and went throughout the year;
Who have seen green leaves turn yellow in the November darkness,
Light and bulabuli birds frolicking in the windows of a cashew tree,
A mouse rubbing chaff over his silklike fur on a wintry night,
Waves forming in gray odors of rice and pouring down twice daily
Upon eyes of lonely fish, a duck in evening's darkness on the bank of
a Pond
Catching scent of sleep-the touch of a womanly hand carries him off,
A golden hawk calling from the window of a minaretlike cloud,
Beneath a wicker vine a sparrow's eggs appearing so hard,
A river ever smearing its banks with fragrance of soft water,
Roof thatching casting shadows in deep night upon a moonlit
courtyard,
Smell of crickets in the green wind of April's outlying fields,
Thick juice oozing with heavy desire into bluish custard apples' breasts;
We who have seen the red fruit fallen beneath the thick banyan,
The crowds of deserted fields seeing their faces in the river,
However blue the skies, yet finding one that is even bluer;
Who upon the paths have seen soft eyes casting their glow on the earth;
We who have seen evening each day flow over rows of betel nut trees,
The dawn appear every day simple and green like a sheaf of paddy;
We who have understood after many a day, month, season gone by
That daughter of the earth who came near and in the darkness spoke of
Rivers; we who have understood there is another light within
The fields, ghats, paths: its afternoon grayness is in our bodies-
As we let go our seeing hands, that light remains constant:
Kankabati of the earth floats there and attains a body of pale incense.
Before death what more do we wish to understand? Do I not know that
The face of gray death awakes like a wall at the head of all prostrate
Reddened desires. once there was a dream in this world-there was
gold
That attained silent peace, as though by some magician's need.
What more do we wish to understand? Haven't we heard the call of
wings
As the sun faded? Haven't we seen the crow fly off into fields of
fog!
