53
Why do you put me to shame with a look?
I have not come as a beggar.
Only for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyard
outside the garden hedge.
Why do you put me to shame with a look?
Not a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did I
pluck.
I humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every
strange traveller may stand.
Not a rose did I pluck.
Yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down.
The winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.
The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from
defeat.
My feet were tired.
I know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at
your door.
Flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes.
How could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark?
I know not what you thought of me.
The day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment.
I leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this
seat on the grass.
It has darkened; shut your door; I go my way.
The day is ended.
54
Where do you hurry with your basket this late evening when the
marketing is over?
They all have come home with their burdens; the moon peeps from
above the village trees.
The echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across the
dark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?
Sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth.
The nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of the
bamboo leaves are silent.
The labourers home from their fields spread their mats in the
courtyards.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?
55
It was mid-day when you went away.
The sun was strong in the sky.
I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went
away.
Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distant
fields.
The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my
room humming the news of many distant fields.
The village slept in the noonday heat. The road lay deserted.
In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died.
I glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name I
had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat.
I had forgotten to braid my hair. The languid breeze played with
it upon my cheek.
The river ran unruffled under the shady bank.
The lazy white clouds did not move.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
It was mid-day when you went away.
The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting.
The doves cooed among the dense leaves.
I was alone in my balcony when you went away.
56
I was one among many women busy with the obscure daily tasks of
the household.
Why did you single me out and bring me away from the cool shelter
of our common life?
Love unexpressed in sacred. It shines like gems in the gloom of
the hidden heart. In the light of the curious day it looks
pitifully dark.
Ah, you broke through the cover of my heart and dragged my
trembling love into the open place, destroying for ever the
shady corner where it hid its nest.
The other women are the same as ever.
No one has peeped into their inmost being, and they themselves
know not their own secret.
Lightly they smile, and weep, chatter, and work. Daily they go
to the temple, light their lamps, and fetch water from the
river.
I hoped my love would be saved from the shivering shame of the
shelterless, but you turn your face away.
Yes, your path lies open before you, but you have cut off my
return, and left me stripped naked before the world with its
lidless eyes staring night and day.
57
I plucked your flower, O world!
I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.
When the day waned and it darkened, I found that the flower had
faded, but the pain remained.
More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!
But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark
night I have not my rose, only the pain remains.