This water feels good; —so many times had the silvery water of rain
Cleansed my body—run its fingers through my hair—and on my eyes it has
Let its calm and comely hands stay and play, —much like a virgin lass
It has kissed my lips intensely, and was gone again;
This water I like; —in the lands of cobalt leaves and soft grass and sunshine
Exactly as a wren would admire its days—flying into some coppice
Over and over, —in as clandestine a love as if rice
On my body and my eyes this water would drain;
When in the month of Agrahayan the farmlands teem with glitz,
When at the jamun branches the soft and cold hooting of the owl
Is heard, the paddy up its breast, as the shali rice scatters its bits,
Over my lips and on my eyelids this water would oftentimes drizzle—
On my hair too; —as if the blushing sun, on the green custard-apple
Lays its supple hands, squeezing milk out of its tits. . . .
Subrata Augustine Gomes is a poet and a translator.