The sky is still gray, over the mountains,
Trees still in their leaves, not a whistle.
Our child shall be born anew, our miracle,
The birth from a deep night, night’s child.
The folds of the hills held it in their wind,
In haunting fragrance of thorny flowers
On the side of the mud-track, in furrows
Of rice fields, with wet feet of our women.
The hills waited expectantly and the cows
In their return, in the dust of their hoofs.

Let us get a peacock feather for his head
A little blue of the sky for his over-wear.
But the sky is still gray with shades of rain
And the peacock is dizzy in its rain-dance
Waiting for its  own miracle on a gray sky.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s