78. Harvesting Girl




Harvesting girl, thy wheatish brow,

Thereupon shine the labour crops,

Receding furrows of wheat heat thee up,

And thy sickle becometh shakti.

Parched lips, work strain on sweating face,

Trickle which upon eyelids upon dreams,

Keep heart O girl, prism they are,

Showing imagination hued coloured hopes;

Hopes of a good harvest; home upstaged

Or groomed dreams about marriage.



The wheatish colour strewn around,

All eager to be cut short by thy hands,

And there thou move ahead leaving stumps,

Wiping occasionally brow thine;

Dreamt harvest go off with a swipe.

Real thou become for reality one:

Look at the furrows swaying ahead,

Hot noon, flying pollens show them oblong,

And thou start slowly-slowly again,

Brow thine meanwhile daughters sweat tiny.



Drops which fall upon thy eye shelters,

Beneath narrowed eyes due concentration hard,

Still sun reflects through them,

And rainbowed vision thou have.

How much to be finished? Worry thee not,

Lost again in a dream, O girl, thou mingle in gold,

Work as thou bent headed; pollens fall,

Seems it thou harvesting, give offerings,

Blessed such thou reach furrow end,

Tire not O girl, furrows lie at thy feet.



Small sand-swirl passes as by,

Leaves it thy hair more pollened; wind furrowed,

O windy girl, now when loo is forming,

And all are afraid of sandy gusts,

Thou, but, have fire more inside thee,

Hence listen thou not its voice around ears,

Thus defeated it passes to flutter those leaves far,

Now when sun is shining overhead,

Like a father feeling for his daughter,

Stays it there to avoid thy face directly.



Thou smell the smell of ripened gold,

Sweat scented body thine sources it,

Mingles it with the blowing hot air,

And the message spreads over the vast fields,

The message of hard work without complaint,

Makest it the golden wheat more so;

Inspires the lonely hands struggling across furrows;

Beats away the looming defeat.

Harvester! Thou art the only flower,

For the spring begone, and honeybee wandering.



Peasant girl, stand thou upright for backrest,

And look around into wheatish wilderness,

Nobody is there except some heads

Bent before the furrows and sickled hands,

Feel not forlorn O golden girl,

For thou art the brightest grain,

See! Each lesser one is looking up to you,

Become their role model for brightness’ purpose;

Grinding awaits them after all,

O apostle grain, go on with thy mission.