Poetry
Indian Summer Night
OVER the flat roofs Of the white-walled city Glowers the last moon Of the dread hot weather ; Moonlight as clear, black shadows cast as deep As if a day were only half asleep.
Heavy the air is With the smell of dry dust, Cooked ghee, and mangoes ; The harsh scent of bins
Floats on the stagnant breeze which seems so sta'e
Even the leaves must cease their rustling tale.
On all the house tops Lie brown, sun-tired bodies Stretched on bare charpoys ; Only is the silence Broken by someone murmuring wearily, Seeking for sleep where sleep can never be.
• That and the echo Of the jackals howling, Shrieking in triumph Round some carrion morsel . . .
Just that, and silence ; as remorselessly The stifling, sickening hours come crawling by.
Over the city
In its deathly, stillness,
Patiently waiting Through a sleepless darkness, Till, rolling up towards the dawn-split sky, Rings from the minaret the muezzin's cry. A. R.
U.