एउटा कविता लेख्न मन लाग्यो

How sweet, the chirping of the birds,
the lazy drift of a cool breeze —
the sun not yet risen,
the earth still wrapped in her veil.
Ah, on a morning made for such delight,
this eager, restless body springs up,
stretching, gazing into the open sky.
The thick milk of Mali the cow,
drawn fresh by my own hands yesterday evening, brought to the boil —
with home-ground color carried over from the tea garden across the way,
a determined brew, strong enough to slurp,
a sharp splash of cold water on the face —
and I wake with a start:
good heavens, how is it already ten o’clock?

Outside, the sun’s fierce heat
has already dried even the earth’s tears;
the roaring plague of things that fly and things that roll
has drowned every voice into silence.
By the time sleep comes to this idle body,
the village rooster is nearly crowing;
somehow, in six scraped-together hours,
sleep — mercifully — is done.
Drowning each sip of tea in sweat,
this body wanders about, hunting for a little coolness.

In this crush of people, now,
I must drift far, far out;
purchased smiles and affection begged for —
these I must take to heart to get through the day.
Alone now in the middle of millions,
I have yet to learn how to belong.

But today,
pushing that life a little to one side,
standing myself squarely before myself,
I felt like voicing the complaint of my heart —
today, I felt like
writing a poem.