These palm trees cogitate in groups,
Just as our mild-mannered cattle do,
Casting their dark brooding shadows
On the limpid waters of our paddy fields
In the sowing season their shadows
Tickle our women’s delicate feet
Submerged in soft knee-deep slush
When our fields are shorn and brown
Our palms proudly sport golden fruit
This male one in the shadowy corner
Sports no fruits, only leafy extensions
We love it all the same for its shade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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