IT IS LITTLE that remains now, the rest was spent in one careless summer. It is just enough to put in a song and sing to you; to weave in a flower- chain gently clasping your wrist; to hang in your ear like a round pink pearl, like a blushing whisper; to risk in a game one evening and utterly lose.
My boat is a frail small thing, not fit for crossing wild waves in the rain. If you but lightly step on it I shall gently row you by the shelter of the shore, where the dark water in ripples are like a dream-ruffled sleep; where the dove's cooing from the drooping branches makes the noon- day shadows plaintive. At the day's end, when you are tired, I shall pluck a dripping lily to put in your hair and take my leave.

O YOU shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond, have you forgotten the little child, like the birds that have nested in your branches and left you?
Do you not remember how he sat at the window and wondered at the tangle of your roots that plunged underground?
The women would come to fill their jars in the pond, and your huge black shadow would wriggle on the water like sleep struggling to wake up.
Sunlight danced on the ripples like restless tiny shuttles weaving golden tapestry.
Two ducks swam by the weedy margin above their shadows, and the child would sit still and think.
He longed to be the wind and blow through your rustling branches, to be your shadow and lengthen with the day on the water, to be a bird and perch on your top-most twig, and to float like those ducks among the weeds and shadows.

HALF ASLEEP ON the shore you dreaded
the voice of Tempest
when he thundered in your ears his 'No'.
You had said to each other
that the shore had its plenty,
the house had its comfort,
when suddenly grinding his flashing teeth
Tempest growled 'No'.
But I have made Tempest my comrade
and left my shore,
my ship tosses on the sea.
I have trusted the Terrible,
have filled my sails with his breath
and my heart with his assurance
that the shore is there.
He cries to me, 'You are vagrant
even as I am myself,
Victory to you.'
Things are shattered to pieces
scattered by the wind,
the timid murmur in despair,
'The end of time has come.'
Tempest cries, 'Only that remains
which is utterly given away.'
With trust in him I march forward,
I look not back
while the hoarded heap is swept away by flood.
My traveller's reed is tuned
with the tune of his loud laughter,
it sings: Away with lures of desire,
with bonds that are fixed,
with the achievement that is past and hope that is idle.
Learn for your drum the dance-time
of the reckless waves beating against rocks.
Away with greed and fear,
with tyranny's banner borne by slaves.
Come Divine Destruction,
drive us away from the house,
from safety's easy path.
Come with the flutter of your wings of death,
spread upon the wind your cry 'No'.
No rest, no languor,
No load of feebleness weighing down the head.
Knock and break open the miser's door.
Scatter away the musty gloom of storage,
banish the self-distrust
that seeks a hole wherein to hide,
and let your trumpet proclaim
in the wind
your terrible cry 'No'.