|'Woman with a Pot' by Shashikanta Parida|
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands,
tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.
I did not say a word.
The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road,
On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was opened and the
worshipper had begun his chants.
With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow.
I did not come near you.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the river.
Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar.