Sahyadrica

In the wee hours does he wake daily,                weary and dazed – under woodsmoke haze To the eerie howls of jackals,                             he strolls And visits yonder fields of paddy,                      with a sickle in hand – frail and tanned To reap the crop ‘neath the hills of Maikal. Enshrined by the cragged silhouettes,               old and somber – by the flicker of ember Under darkest sky with a tinge of blue,              he feels His hands hack the wetted spikelets,                 cold and thin – cracks on skin As dawn breaks to clear the hue. The rustling ears fall to the moist earth,           every grain godsent – on a lifetime...