This is a noon for beggars with whining
Voices, a noon for men who come from hills
with parrots in the cage and fortune cards,
all stained with time, for brown kurava girls
with old eyes,who read palms in light singsong
Voices, for bangle-sellers who spread
On the cool black floor those red and green and blue
Bangles , all covered with the dust of the roads,
For all of them , whose feet , devouring rough
Miles , grow cracks on the heels, so that when they
clambered up our porch, the noise was grating
Strange……. This is noon for strangers who part
The window-drapes and peer in, their hot eyes
Brimming with the sun , not seeing a thing in
Shadowy rooms and turn away and look
So yearningly at the brick-ledged well. This
Is a noon for strangers with mistrust in
Their eyes ,dark silent ones, their voices
Run wild, like jungle-voices. Yes this is
A noon for wild men , wild thoughts, wild love. To
Be here, far away , is torture.Wild feet
stirring up the dust, this is a hot noon, at my
home in Malabar, and I so far away.
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