The Indian Way - Poem by Jayanta Mahapatra
The long, dying silence of the rain
over the hills
opens one's touch,
a feeling for the soul's substance,
as for the opal neck
spiralling the inside of a shell.
We keep calm; the voices move.
I buy you the morning's lotus.
we would return again and again
to the movement
that is neither forward nor backward,
stop moving, without regret.
I will not touch you, like _that
until our wedding night.
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