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| | Derek Walcott | "The Saddhu Of Couva" | poetry archive | plagiarist.com (Site not responding. Last check: 2007-10-06) |
 | | When sunset, a brass gong, vibrate through Couva, is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed, like a white cattle bird growing more small over the ocean of the evening canes, and I sit quiet, waiting for it to return like a hog-cattle blistered with mud, because, for my spirit, India is too far. |
| | I knot my head with a cloud, my white mustache bristle like horns, my hands are brittle as the pages of Ramayana. |
| | Once the sacred monkeys multiplied like branches in the ancient temples: I did not miss them, because these fields sang of Bengal, behind Ramlochan Repairs there was Uttar Pradesh; but time roars in my ears like a river, old age is a conflagration as fierce as the cane fires of crop time. |
| www.plagiarist.com /poetry/7764 (359 words) |
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