The Little River

Our little river, it meanders along; In summer, the water is only knee-deep, And cows and carts can cross it with ease, for the bank, though high, are not too steep.

No sign of slime, the sands shine bright, On one shore, Kash field blossoms white. Chirping mynahs through that site;

Across lie groves of mango and palm; the village priests dwell in their cool shade, Girls and boys bathe close to the bank, splashing with their gamchhas as they wade. 

At dusk and dawn, once their bath is done, they dip washcloths to trap small fish. To their household tasks, the wives return, having used river-sand to scour each dish. In Ashadh, clouds gather, the waters rise.