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.