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Слушать(AI)Indian Weavers
RS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
Sarojini Naidu
Sarojini Chattopadhyay Naidu (13 February 1879 – 2 March 1949) was an Indian political activist and poet. A proponent of civil rights, women's e
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In The Forest
RE, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead, Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red, Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire
My Dead Dream
VE OU found me, at last, O my Dream Seven eons ago You died and I buried you deep under forests of snow
To The God Of Pain
Unwilling priestess in thy cruel fane, Long hast thou held me, pitiless god of Pain, Bound to thy worship by reluctant vows, My tired breast girt with suffering, and my brows Anointed with perpetual weariness
The Bangle Sellers
Bangle sellers are we who Our shining loads to the temple fair Who will buy these delicate, Rainbow-tinted circles of light
