In this misty field one day

Nobody will find me walking in this misty field one day, I know;
The journey of the mind ends that day- the edge now blunt, deathly cold.
Solace will take time to come- this field here on earth
Will take some time to forget,
I'll keep looking with awe and wonderment at the shaliks for a awhile
Lying in the bed of dark death,
Do the golden winged kites keep coming from a distant land
Floating with the mist of the field? Floating to barren sacred fig even today
When the evening turns golden?
The eyes of the field mouse in the soft paddy sheaf still looks to the heavens
When evening comes?
Do beehives still hang from a jambul tree's dense bough?
Do the honey-satiated bees soar in the breeze of a misty evening?
How far? Oh....
Maybe someone will burn chalta leafs under the hive,
Leafs that have fallen from the tree.
The bees leave the hive....succumb to the ground... lie dead on the grass.