Onlooker's Tale (DHR)
It's again the soothing pale sunlight, with bright morning mist,
The cooling dew on the green grass, touching the feet with ease.
Above, the azure sky and the soft cloud,
Like white, fluffy cotton scattered all around.
Ponds turn clear like scintillating crystals,
Hidden under the pink flowers’ petals,
As if new brides wearing lotus-veils.
The unchanged riverbanks bear tall Kash,
White plumes dance with the flute of air,
They shimmer with joy as sunlight's gentle clap draws near!
It's again the field of golden paddy.
The hands hold sickle, scythe and spade,
It's already time to harvest.
The granaries are smiling, preparing for grains' homecoming.
The field and the furrows left forlorn,
Bidding their friends farewell,
‘Goodbye, dear friends! When the year returns, we will meet you once again.’
The eyes glitter at the sight of long-awaited fruits,
Hunger cries, ‘I am losing my roots’.
It's again the same moon; silver and pale.
In the night sky like an oyster’s pearl,
It shimmers carrying thousands of untold memories.
In the sleeping night, it sings, consoling the harvested field,
In the silent air, it hears the furrows’ muffled murmur.
On the rooftop, it casts its silver threads,
Children chant ‘Chand Mama, Chand Mama,’ lifting their heads.
And to the draped window
It appears like a fleeting shadow.
It's again the day's tired sun setting,
Coloring the West with its crimson hue.
Night jasmine blooming, releasing its sweet perfume.
The flaking old house standing still and tall,
A beautiful patina of time.
In the corner of the large courtyard,
An old woman, quiet and wrinkled through the years,
sitting with her wooden cane and a blunt betel nut cutter.
The tired young souls return and gather,
With curious yet loving eyes,
Asking their old grandmother,
To tell them old stories.
Grandma lovingly scares them with her croaking voice,
All run scared; Grandma deeply sighs,
'It's always the season that leaves and returns.
We, its leaves, are left to fall and burn.'
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