The wind was curled in a ball asleep in a tree
With a young man cutting a heart on the bark;
Something came into the absence of mind of the wind,
He threw off the green and yawned himself over the sky;
The young man also grew to the height of a cloud
And was loud and rapid and free and never to die.
The wind was slumped on a charpoy in the bazaar,
Her breasts heavy with history; something crept
Slyly under her sari at dead of noon
And while the city slept she craved for water
And jumped to her feet and brushed the flies from her eyes
And took her pitcher and ran to the well of her own monsoon.
The wind lay still on the deck of Brandan’s ship
While the sailors tried to rouse her; she never stirred
Till Brandan joined his hands and, coincidence or not,
She got on her knees and filled her lungs and put
Her lips to the sail and puffed. The long-lost ship
Flew home and into legend like a bird.
The wind had hidden his head in a pit in the sand
Of an uncrossable desert; something slid
Into his lack of ear, he gradually uncurled
Like a king cobra, rose and spread his hood
And swayed in time with what the charmer piped,
In time with Time, to wreck or bless the world.
(Bron: Selected Poems -from Solstices-/faber and faber)