To know that time has never been
That all is now, if ever when
And after a while,
To recall
The nether whisperings of the Nile
Even in the water
Of the stone-ringed mountain
Spring,
Or to talk again with Hanuman,
Who may yet be returning
From beyond the rolling sea,
His golden, tea-leaved eyes
Too conscious,
Too courageous,
Or too kind
To sift among the shackles and shells
Of barnacled
Hulls,
But nevermind…
The slight
Fawn
In the meadow,
Fair and far,
Is so glad to be tripping gaily
Among the lilies of delight.
No one will fall
Into the dark river
Below
Or go astray
Among the saffron petals of the sitar
Singing still
Through the lost rain
Of the distant summer.
There is no one,
Only the star-
Hooded,
Silver head of dawn,
Glimpsed behind
The wooded hill,
Only the mystical one,
Who is both all and none,
Like the shining cows
Who return again
To browse
Anew at every break of day
By the riverbanks of Saraswathi.
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