A palette of paint to paint his face,
Clothes full of colours bright,
A round red nose that bobs like a ball,
He is ready with a smile.

Comic antics that delight folks,
He rides, slides, cartwheels and falls,
Slips on banana peels, juggles fruit,
Tickled faces all.

When night comes, off comes the paint,
The nose, the wig, the clothes bright,
In dwindling darkness he rests himself,
Now his face he hides.

A jester, he jested, he cheered —
A camouflage in art,
But to himself, alone and quiet,
He rests his aching heart.

An act extraordinaire —
Oh how he does beguile,
But to himself, now alone,
Who’ll make the jester smile?

The bakula and the madhumalti
Sway in the warm wind
Watching children play
In stained shirts
With mud-filled nails
Bare feet and beady drops of laughter
Unmindful of the heat
While a dog playfully rolls over
Trying to catch the sunlight
That falls through the trees

A white-eye flies low,
resting on the firangipani tree
Butterflies dance around the hibiscus
And bees swarm
Hedges have blossomed with flowers

And the mynah calls from outside—
To awaken the forgotten child in an older heart
And tell her that summer reigns