on the grass-land
in-between
cast their shadows
once the folk-song
once the rare cotton
so much sky-kissing blue
are the horses of sunday
with glittering sunshine
on its white sail
the bird
that has flown from the corn-field
with a rosy balloon on its back
now in the evening of the girl
having her husband alive
the smell of salted turmeric
engrosses the cloth-end
not from so far-end
not in so much noise
coming nearer
in a more whispering voice
the mushroom of the lips
sees its face
in the green of rain-drops