The Gardener (Tagore)/78
IT was in May. The sultry noon seemed endlessly long. The dry earth gaped with thirst in the heat.
When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, “Come, my darling!”
I shut my book and opened the window to look out.
I saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near the river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee-deep in water, calling it to its bath.
I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.