moving not a bit
the fields
keep going along
the centuries' highways.
Canopies of neat clouds
hang over them,
drip in stout drops
and bathe them clean.
The azure sky,
face down,
keeps talking mute tongue.
The light comes all the way from afar.
The wind approaches
and plays with the clods across the chest.
The day, the evening, the morning
and the night is written
on the plain pages of the fields.
Green terraces are formed.
The lovely images of cattle
graze all over their backs
The fields keep on having fun
with the bushes here.
And stare into the river
flowing along the edge of their eyes.
Without any flow,
there's a continual flow in them.
A charming hue,
candid and lucid comfort.
Streamers of warm feeling
hang across their sky.
The fields were never carried
by any flustering temptation of noises
of the chowk*, town, and bazaar,
never raised a malicious voice
against anyone.
The fields have come a long way,
have raced through centuries
like a pristine face of life
without putting on any pomp,
the fields have become modern
and the fields have become post modern.