A green dawn blooms
against the pale blue sky. With the cuckoo's call
night ends beyond the window, bringing
mist's many sweetnesses, sleepy eyes
reading the day's diary again and again.
Then tender sunlight on budding branch, flower, grass
suddenly spreads, making this moving world
how wonderfully beautiful!
In Phagun's chill dawn
butterflies fly, dusted with yellow pollen.
Yet on this endless life's shore
sorrow's blue river winds and flows.
How many dust-whirlwinds raise wild storms,
how many dried buds fall on every path.
False hope's barren field scorns all dust and sand,
yet it becomes enchanted
in youth's green hour.
In the noon's burning, intoxicating breeze
lost past and familiar faces float in song,
again bakul petals perfume that southern forest,
again spring colors fill a fair maiden's heart with dreams,
face pressed to pillow, her heart seems to hear whose footfall,
deep heart-wounds soothed in Chaitra night's moonlit balm.
At midnight sleep breaks in the city's low-ceilinged room
leaving brick, wood, alley behind—far, far away
where unknown villages, casuarina groves, bird-call melodies
come to mind. Spring's green hours
will fall away one day, I know;
a lonely empty vase lies at the window.