I see my Bulbul once again,

Perched on my mohter’s palm,

Picking from between her yielding fingers

Seeds of rice and gram.

 

I hear him say “come away,

You’ve done all you could;

Time to melt into the hills

That stand where they always stood.”

 

What percipience the Bulbul has

Of the end of my alien sojourning!

Could I but heed his childhood call,

My end would marry my beginning.

 

Did not Plato contemplate

Circles of perfection?

It might be restful just to roll

Away from linear action?

---