osses many a mustard field, and many a
mango forest.
It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the
river landing place.
I stopped by this hut, I do not know why.

Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the
spring was languorous, and mango blossoms were dropping on the
dust.
The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood
on the landing step.
I think of that day of breezy March, I do not know why.

Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds.
The light is grey upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are
waiting for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps, I do not know why.

15

I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with
his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of
the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what
I do not seek.

From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire.
The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.
I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

16

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the
record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of _henna_
is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your
garland of flowers in unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like
praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening
again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet
useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no
shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not
raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the
wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

17

The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with
gladness.
We both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of
joy