Classic Poem

Narrinai 3

A hen-eagle broods, sick
in the great branches
lifted to the sky,

in a neem tree
with cracked trunk and dotted shade
where unschooled children
scratch their squares
on a rock
flat as a touchstone
and play marbles with gooseberries

in that wilderness
with fierce little settlements
of marauders,
the bow their only plow,

and as evening comes creeping in,
sapping my strength, what can I do
but think of her,

who is sweet as a deed
long wished for and done,

standing there
in this hour of memories
in front of a house lamp

blazing?