I see my thirty-year old daughter
again as a six-month old.
I bathe her,wash away
the dust and muck
of thirty years.

Now she glistens like
a short Amichai poem
in the liquid glow of Heaven.
The little towel
gets wet with Time.

Beethoven raises his
more than human hands
turning the window-bars
into piano-keys.

My daughter
emerges out of a symphony
to hug me with
her rose-soft hands.

Outside, rain’s bihag :
Kishori Amonkar.

*To Sabitha,suffering from Multiple Sclerosis
(Translated from the Malayalam by the poet )