In the summer morning
The sun pops up, smiling
And resumes his operation
Of pilfering water from pond
And donating to the sky anon.
I see her serpentine gait,
Trudging softly on pebbles
With tinkle of trinkets,
As Alta around sole edges,
Sparkling while her
black plait dances.
My gaze follows that belle,
Bedecked with a veil,
To the dwindling pond,
As in her armpit,
A pitcher bonds.
Standing on a stone,
To Keep the Alta safe
She looks at the depleted bed,
Filling slowly and in installment,
Avoiding the lily leaves.
When I hear the displacing air,
From the pitcher,
Remember I the Sabd Vedi arrow
Of King Dasrath
And cry of dying Sraban.
As her sari rustles
Drenches it the dripping water,
I see her smile of satisfaction,
As pearl drops
And the rest
My pen does.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem