I have come to this new life.

and the mud-walls enclose it,

the creak of the well-pulley disturbs my dreams.

Even when my body is asleep,

I polish the brass pots with ashes,

and tremble at the sound of a chiding footfall.

My mother-in-law stands at all doorways.

and has voices harder than a poor man’s fate.

A death has parted me and my playmates,

my child-life is cremated,

and many times I am hurt for the trees of my village

and the peace of the village-shrine.

But on Fridays I bind my hair with flowers,

and my blood is a tide–when I see flowers.

I can only think of them so.

Each pool is a glass, and I bend over.

What is this god come into my life?

He comes into my hours like the fitful sun on a monsoon day,

his shadow is bright as he walks into the dim room.

I go about with downcast expression,

and hear the laughter of village-women mocking me.

They whisper nameless jests, and their laughter pursues me

but my heart is proud like the Sirisha bloom on the bough.

I am sore with the trammels of this life,

and I pres against the wall with downcast eyes,

but my heart laughs when I hear a voice.