The poets of the Land of Indra write
Godhulivela, end of day, “the hour
The cows make dusty,” and a lotus flower,
Remembering, lays its petals to the light
Of August evenings. And this is how
The word in darkness for two thousand years
And experience lost for thirty, hemispheres
Falling each way divisive of the two—
As we say, worlds apart—at last may join,
Something won back from chaos though by chance,
Godhulivela. The muddy cows advance
Flicking their tails—sad udder, bony loin,
And rolling eye following one by one
Around the knoll, the duckpond, past the stile,
My lumbering, lowing, suffering, lingering file.
The dust of evening fires the saffron sun.
The poets of the Land of Tophet know
The word, could write it if they were inclined
To call that knowledge of the world to mind;
Their children would not understand them though.
The poets of the Land of Indra may
Regard this as a queer and frightening end,
Something too far away to comprehend,
But doubtless it will come to them someday.