Krishnakali


I CALL HER MY Krishna flower

though they call her dark in the village.

I remember a cloud-laden day

and a glance from her eyes,

her veil trailing down at her feet

her braided hair loose on her back.

Ah, you call her dark; let that be,

her black gazelle eyes I have seen.

Her cows were lowing in the meadow,

when the fading light grew grey.

With hurried steps she came out

from her hut near the bamboo grove.

She raised her quick eyes to the sky,

where the clouds were heavy with rain.

Ah, you call her dark! let that be,

her black gazelle eyes I have seen.

The East wind in fitful gusts

ruffled the young shoots of rice.

I stood at the boundary hedge

with none else in the lonely land.

If she espied me in secret or not

She only knows and know 1.

Ah, you call her dark! let that be,

her black gazelle eyes I have seen.

She is the surprise of cloud

in the burning heart of May,

a tender shadow on the forest

in the stillness of sunset hour,

a mystery of dumb delight

in the rain-loud night of June.

Ah, you call her dark! let that be,

her black gazelle eyes I have seen.

I call her my Krishna flower,

let all others say what they like.

In the rice-field of Maina village

I felt the first glance of her eyes.

She had not a veil on her face,

not a moment of leisure for shyness.

Ah, you call her dark! let that be,

her black gazelle eyes I have seen.

 

 

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