We rose sucking the earth's milk
Grew and branched in many directions
Leaf, flower, fruit covered us seasonally.
Winds danced and rains sang about us
In flood amd drought we waited
The birds did come back.
And the fluted cowherd leaned against our trunks
To play melodies to maids in their virginal hours.
The night's darkness lulled us
The star patterned sky was our blanket.
Now stacked in pyres by the river-bank
We wait
Bone ashes and ours to mingle
As men and trees burn together
Here at the ghats.


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I like the second stanza better than the first. Ah, you introduced that archetypal 'cowherd' and his 'maids' too. But like Hawk I find a 'fluted cowherd' quite odd. You may give a thought to rephrase it.
