The age in the Village

The survivors act to be rest,

Not all sounds, the soil, the earth,

the sentimental spots they believed they’d left-back.

Delicately I cross

the palm trunk overpass above the irrigation waterway,

and the grave, lush water runs on, stumbling.

Doesn’t its inertia fool your eyes?

The peepul tree stillness on the dull burning soil

Beside the low clay walls of a home,

Yamuna, in the hurt-filled lamp

of a first October sunset,

in the septic uniformity

of the grass-lined whoop of the children.

There yet the sorrow pigeons

waving out of the high crests of bamboo,

those first values that make a nation count,

while a wintry mind of inutility occupies

on the murky brown neck of a woman

where the cardinal mark of the gods

had tidied over throughout the years,

a misery, complex spirit.

Can the series of lost souls out there in the trees swell you?

And does one understand of elements of the world?

To this vermilion spread, whored stone

and bleary-eyed sluggish calves of a slumbering soil

She shyly dips to a world of her own,

(was everything through solely a lie?)

the twilight sun calmly moving by,

going behind on her body

the fear of shadow,

before another shadow writhes upon her surface,

hesitant, ephemeral, real

as above the stone,

as in a uterus where love conceivably had never been.