I asked nothing，only stood at the edge
of the wood behind the tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the
the dew in the air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in
the thin mist above the earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking
the cow with your hands，tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.
I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong
at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the
hoofs of the driven cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips，women came from the
Your bracelets were jingling，and foam brimming over
The morning wore on and I did not come