The earth is the village where I was born;
Tinkling cow-bells filtering through,
A tender haze of brilliant blue,
Mangoes swinging from the trees
Scattered blossoms in the breeze.
Birds that knife through a silver dawn,
Breaking the stillness of the dew-wet morn.
She carries water from the well,
This lovely, golden, village belle.
With her pots of brass,
Her limpid grace,
I cannot help but stand and gaze,
For the rhythm of her lovely gait,
Has woven itself into my helpless heartbeat.
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