I clearly remember that drumstick tree
to the south of our house .
The greenness of their leaves
I saw again in Benares:
The weavers of the Ganga had
turned them into tempting silk.

When the drumstick tree would
teem with blossoms,I would look up-
to see whether all the stars were in place.
And those green fingers they turn into
would grow longer day by day-unaware
that one day a hook would
pull them down to the very earth
they had ever been pointing to:
what bloodless death, just green!

As we suck at the cooked drumsticks in the curry
what festivals of flavour on the taste buds!!
As the seeds roll on the tongue,
how many love-nights in the throat!

That tree is no more.Fiftyseven rains
carried away the pebbles and shells
of the child that played at its feet.
Then those shattered bangle-shards:
they may be still there under the soil:
dreaming of being caught in a sudden flame,
breaking once again into shards
under another drumstick tree in full bloom
at the same site, falling from the arms of
another girl, in short skirts.

(Translated from the original Malayalam by the poet)