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Undismayed by the barking of the village cur, the cow browses on the bank, followed by a hopping group of saliks hunting moths. I sit in the tamarind grove, where the cries of dumb life congregate the cattle's lowing, the sparrows' chatter, the shrill scream of a kite overhead, the crickets' chirp, and the splash of a fish in the water.
I wait for that love which gathers failures to sow them in tears on the dark, that they may bear fruit when day rises anew. On this side of the water there is no landing; the girls do not come here to fetch water; the land along its edge is shaggy with stunted shrubs; a noisy flock of saliks dig their nests in the steep bank under whose frown the fisher-boats find no shelter.
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