Omens
Omens
- - - - -
The sweet aroma of rice; yonder bare fields;
on the stone the dark patches of water pitchers
and her looking at the sky where buzzards fly,
are completing the composition of waiting.
She has been waiting too long; too long she has made her man
hold his patience all these while; believed peace will come.
Now these flying buzzards are looking ominous
like secret language which mystic nomads speak.
She trembles with the prospect of unknown evils.
A long wait for her son, returning from town,
from the all consuming town where he has gone
long, long, long time ago. But she has hoped for return.
She again watched for God’s language. Let him come.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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