Then,
a day will come when
in a thatched-roof house, on its narrow verandah,
on a mat spread over the damp earth, facing each other
we will sit, the two of us, yet not touching.
We will know our hearts
had gathered a distance of many worlds,
had mixed like silt in the water of the first monsoon.
We will know our love
had kept us entranced, like a bodiless moonlight.
Or our love was
in the land of gold-mouthed water,
a jewel of Konkabati inside an oyster’s breast.
All around, water and wilderness, drifting on the full moon,
the autumn sky at monsoon’s end, a bodiless cloud
will drift on, as it has drifted on
age after age; our love, coloured ash-grey.
We,
like our own dream,
will lift our eyes to look at each other in the dim light,
will know how familiar these eyes, this face are to us!
Grinding away all the shame of the past, all separation and parting,
like our own dream,
letting love go into the hand of time,
we will still remain, both of us, silent.
Our mouths will say nothing,
into the silence will drift
all the words spoken and unspoken.
Once the spell breaks,
once the trace of moonlight fades,
breaking the silence we will tell each other,
“The night has truly passed,
just like our dream.”
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