THE KINGFISHER sits still on the prow of an empty boat, while in the shallow margin of the stream a buffalo lies tranquilly blissful, its eyes half closed to savour the luxury of cool mud. Undismayed by the barking of the village cur, the cow browses on the bank, followed by a hopping group of saliks hunting moths. I sit in the tamarind grove, where the cries of dumb life congregate-the cattle's lowing, the sparrows' chatter, the shrill scream of a kite overhead, the crickets' chirp, and the splash of a fish in the water. I peep into the primeval nursery of life, where the mother Earth thrills at the first living clutch near her breast.
I SHALL NOT wait and watch in the house for thy coming, but will go forth into the open, for the petals fall from the drooping flowers and time flies to its end. The wind is up, the water is ruffled. Be swift and cut the rope, let the boat drift in the midstream, for the time flies to its end. The night is pale, the lonely moon is playing its ferry of dreams across the sky. The path is unknown, but I heed it not. My mind has the wings of freedom and I know that I shall cross the dark. Let me but start on my journey, for the time flies to its end.
