Summer

The day deprecates his night

For being passive and of short height

Like a passionate man

Scolding his wife when she loses her estrogen

Still clinging to bed,

The youth’s tired limbs tire to fend

But, only babble at his early reach

And peeping at him through the window pitch

The rose trees shed tears over the fall of their shrunken petals

That contagiously grow and grip the gardener

Who is hopeless and haplessly stands near

While with gamcha wipes his sweat-mixed tear

At noon,

When from the field they return,

The half-fed cattle stop and listen

To the eels rising from the mud

With painful jocund,

Say and regret their stay,

While they ruefully measure the depth of the pond.

(gamcha (ind.)- a loin cloth; a short towel)