The young men left us.
They took everything with them—
Money, warm April breezes, youth,
The scent of parijats, and above all, love.
The young men left us,
And went to work as migrant laborers
In distant sultry lands,
Far away from the touch of Heaven and Hell.
All that remains, here in the hills,
Are the dusty poplars, the winding lanes,
The cottages with broken eaves,
The decaying walls, roofs of rusting tin,
And reticent villagers crippled
By the constant hammering of heavy memories.
“Where’s your son?”
Don’t you ask that question!
The answer is obvious.
It is a feeble pointing
With a languid index finger
Toward the dusty gravel lane,
And a cold look with yellow eyes.