I asked nothing， only stood at the edge of the wood behind the tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn， and the dew in the air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands，
tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.
I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips， women came from the river.
Your bracelets were jingling， and foam brimming over the jar.
The morning wore on and I did not come near you.