YOU HAVE taken a bath in the dark sea. You are once again veiled in a bride's robe, and through death's arch you come back to repeat our wedding in the soul.
        Neither lute nor drum is struck, no crowd has gathered, not a wreath is hung on the gate.
        Your unuttered words meet mine in a ritual unillumined by lamps.

'I AM ashamed of my emptiness,' said the Word to the Work.
'I know how poor I am when I see you,' said the Work to the Word.

WHEN THE GONG sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our lane,
Every day I meet the hawker crying, 'Bangles, crystal bangles!'
There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home.
I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, 'Bangles, crystal bangles!'
When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school,
I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging the
ground.
He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or gets wet.
I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with nobody to stop me from digging.
Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to bed,
I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and down.
The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like a giant with one red eye in its head.
The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at his side, and never once goes to bed in his life.
I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night, chasing the shadows with my lantern.