I recited Tagore to you at bedtime.
               Tales of flower buds and fishermen,
               Boat crossings on an ocean of milk. 

[You settle in your sleep.]

Your earrings rest near the humming lamp. 
Shape of West Bengal, after division. 

I intoned to you words and stories.
               Filled your chest with combinations,
               The spell-soft caress of dimness,
               The breath inside your breath.

A physical geography of the Purānas
Details the landscape of your person.

[You the product of sages.]

O Gopi—cowherd of my sorrows,
Your maya is the veil. Play flute noises,
Confide to me in ciphers.


Image by Quang Le from Pixabay