To know that time has never been

That all is now, if ever when

And after a while,

To recall

The nether whisperings of the Nile

Even in the water

Of the stone-ringed mountain

Spring,

Or to talk again with Hanuman,

Who may yet be returning

From beyond the rolling sea,

His golden, tea-leaved eyes

Too conscious,

Too courageous,

Or too kind

To sift among the shackles and shells

Of barnacled

Hulls,

But nevermind…

The slight

Fawn

In the meadow,

Fair and far,

Is so glad to be tripping gaily

Among the lilies of delight.

No one will fall

Into the dark river

Below

Or go astray

Among the saffron petals of the sitar

Singing still

Through the lost rain

Of the distant summer.

There is no one,

Only the star-

Hooded,

Silver head of dawn,

Glimpsed behind

The wooded hill,

Only the mystical one,

Who is both all and none,

Like the shining cows

Who return again

To browse

Anew at every break of day

By the riverbanks of Saraswathi.

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