Whispers of the Riverbank
On a lonely riverbank, one cool evening—
have you ever heard the murmur of the river?
Have you seen the endless stretch of sand upon sand—
and there, a dead turtle lying belly-up in stillness?
The sky is strewn with stars,
yet a single slice of moon peers shyly
through the clouds—
far away, have you seen that gamar tree?
In the silent dark it seems to whisper—
but to whom, and of what?
A flock of doves wings homeward in the chill dusk;
in the distance, rows of fishermen’s boats rest,
their oarsmen not returning home all night.
One stays at his boat’s helm—
have you seen his sorrowful face,
lit faintly by the warmth of his heart,
as he gazes at the dancing river?
The enchantment of the fish glimmers in his eyes and mouth;
his gaze plays all night upon the naked waters.
Above, in the cloud-veiled sky,
the broken moon searches for its Rohini—
flirting, hiding, teasing among the clouds.
The river shivers at the bank’s touch,
and in that breaking, in that erosion,
the restless waters find their strange fulfillment.
