By my window do these moors pass,
like shadows, these British farms.
Some long stalks of bushy grass
or fields of spuds with outstretched arms.
They stand unaffected by the cold;
Embrace the mist and foster the dew.
'Tween them a yellowing Beech old
shakes his leaves to bid adieu.
No sun in sight in a colony of clouds,
yet sweet sparrows do twitter.
Tis their singsong and Boreas' flute
Announcing the oncoming winter.
Though the days shorten and hail falls,
these moors all stand unbothered;
They wait for the spring blossom as
waits Eurydice in death for her betrothed
- Chinmayee Kulkarni
