A Summer Poem by Jayanta Mahapatra
Over the soughing of the sombre wind
priests chant louder than ever;
the mouth of India opens.
Crocodiles move into deeper waters.
Mornings of heated middens
smoke under the sun.
The good wife
lies in my bed
through the long afternoon;
dreaming still, unexhausted
by the deep roar of funeral pyres.
[Note: midden = dunghill]