It is a beating summer,
All the birds have left the dales.
It is a beating March,
All the rivers are dreaming for rains.
And in that sweat
I am listening to an endless clatter.
A track is being repaired,
Hammers are at work.
And under a shady bower,
Upon the lap of a swing,
A baby sleeps in soft dreams,
She is in the care of winds.
Her mother is hammering for life,
Sun is merciless upon her breast.
Now and then, she peeps unto the bower
And listens for a cry too supple for her breast
And the mother returns her eyes,
She is back into her routine winds.
Beyond a weighing hammer
She carries a weighing breast for a waking life.
Ravi Panamanna
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-weighing-breast-for-a-waking-life/
