This is the river of Nainital
and this the sun glossing over the water
and this is the sound of risen voices
from chestnut trees along the road.
The bells of the shrine are bronze bells,
they walk the water into music,and
night arrives with the great stars,
cupping them deep in the dark hills of Kumuon.
A child cries out; all is not well
a sail, leaning across the water.
is ivory on jade and the herons glide over;
yet something is wrong in Nainital.
But not too wrong -a little thing,
like the slight fever in the small shack
though an old man coughing out of sleep
can send his daughter into mourning.
To Nainital, by train, by bus,
by car,on foot the travelers come,
nothing can keep them from this life
no stranger's death, no foreign pain.