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This poem is taken from PN Review 64, Volume 15 Number 2, November - December 1988.

The Best Friend Mitra Devarati

While playing with my round boat,
you drown it somewhere every day
in the gentle, cold, lulling stream.
Every night
you sleep on your mother's lap, deep
           in the forest among the trees.
Your flock of clouds is unnecessarily nostalgic;
I can't stand rain at all,
I feel like running away with
those green horses that pull your chariot.

You come yourself
to the waterfall strewn with fathomless
            multi-coloured stones.
Nearly half again the size of a man, three-dimensional
            three-dimensional,
your glance is painted on raw blue leaves.
...


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