Beneath the rays of the unmerciful sun
July sang its old drowsy tune,
Even the birds made no move to shun,
As they stood mesmerized by the croon.

In that hush of a golden disc,
I surrendered to stillness of grove;
Only thoughts were not silent and brisk,
Aching bitterly, longing to prove

A scope of beauty washed over the land,
Captured solely in that fine instant,
Praising picture of flower-bloom blend,
Chasing something no longer persistent.

In the midst of the idyll I saw
A dewy fruit that was beckoning me,
Silky-skinned, with no dimple or flaw,
As if carring a whispered plea.

Kissed by warmth of the Indian summer,
Blessed by waters of the motherly soil,
To my lips it became fervent lover,
To my soul—a great reason to toil.

I enjoyed mellow gift with delight,
Saying farewell to the coming sunset,
Planting seeds of belief in midnight,
And recalling the wonder I met.