These groves are quiet
Where my lover in a purple cloud lies down.
Unhappy shadows riot.
Her hair is black, her skin, Bengali brown.
Religious crowds have not been fed,
Religious colors are a bright, bright red.
Those who roll by the river could drown.
Flowers in the groves rebel
In a tangerine-yellow yell.
The crimson noises
Kiss red against red
When our kissing pauses.
Aquamarines have secrets to tell.
Gray eyes of poem’s roses
Sleep where the persian poppy dozes.
The springy orchard and the oozing well
Release a pungent indigo smell.
No shadow is afraid.
The weed has an adamantine need
In the darkening shade.
Blue silken bell.
I came across the roof to see
What her religion means to me.
I dropped down from my height
In a cloud of white,
Startled by the odors of this
Delicious kiss.
Buzzing flies
Are husky in their thighs.
The one color which bled in my heart
Was green—which made the landscape start.
The million kisses I had in mind
Crept into hers. The groves are blind
To the lighter hues,
To drops of rain, to dusty magentas and blues.
A religious crowd is pressing in.
A glassy, ebony breathing skin
Breathes the world I am breathing in.
Now the night is almost white.
In dark groves my Bengali dies.
Who drinks the maroon noon
Belonging to her cryptic sighs?
