I wonder
at the three
young girls whose daily
rounds bring them
to that shore.
Saris blowing in the breeze
yet the river serene
and still these three
stop there each day —
and the youngest one
fair in youth tips
her hat hello
to the man in the boat.
Of what does she think?
On what immortal
shore does her mind
wander, alone or with
the other two?
The sun in its descent
casts long shadows
down the mountain slope.
Soon, in the dark
of night these three
will be alone
save for their memories
on the day and dreams
of strong young men —
virtuous, pure, mischievous
with a hint of something
wild in their eyes.
Do all girls dream
as these?
And what of the man
in his skiff
whose daily catch
is a meager fill
for a wife and child, too?
Of what does he dream,
or think, as the young
girls pass by?
What words if asked
could he offer
about his lot in life,
about the wife
of his youth now gray
and their children
already in the grave?
Perhaps these girls
have attained the age
his children already gone
to heaven
would have been.
Those years of toil
on the waves or along
its muddied edge
yield scarce recompense
it seems to me.
And yet, those three
in saris white walk
with heads unbowed,
their feet somehow
free of stain.
Standing now along
the shore they appear
as fresh as the dawn,
even as one
more forlorn day
comes slowly
to its close.
