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