A Woman sat under the tall mango tree,

And the green-and-gold of her joy filled the air,

And a bright summer-sky arched over the world;

Her beauty came from the deeps of love,

Her heart plunged moon after moon in the night,

Her face was the sun of a dawn that knows no eve.

In fragrant grove of that timeless moment

She looked out from the unseen source of her sight,

And heard the rhythms of birth and life and death,

And of her being-of-bliss made a holocaust;

From the thousand-petalled lotus rose a flame.

Her brow was the crypt of a defeatless will,

In her puissant arms flashed a million swords,

She destroyed the steeds of the Kings of Darknesss.

Then as of the supreme ether a voice claimed:

“But it is I who enjoys the fruits of this tree.”

RY Deshpande

3 February 1985