Itistimeformetogo, mother; Iamgoing.
Wheninthepalingdarknessofthelonelydawnyoustretchoutyourarmsforyourbabyinthebed, Ishallsay, “Babyisnotthere!”—mother, Iamgoing.
Ishallbecomeadelicatedraughtofairandcaressyou; andIshallberipplesinthewaterwhenyoubathe, andkissyouandkissyouagain.
Inthegustynightwhentherainpattersontheleavesyouwillhearmywhisperinyourbed, andmylaughterwillflashwiththelightningthroughtheopenwindowintoyourroom.
Ifyoulieawake, thinkingofyourbabytilllateintothenight, Ishallsingtoyoufromthestars, “Sleep, mother, sleep.”
OnthestrayingmoonbeamsIshallstealoveryourbed, andlieuponyourbosomwhileyousleep.
Ishallbecomeadream, andthroughthelittleopeningofyoureyelidsIshallslipintothedepthsofyoursleep, andwhenyouwakeupandlookroundstartled, likeatwinklingfireflyIshallflitoutintothedarkness.
When, onthegreatfestivalofpuja, theneighbours’childrencomeandplayaboutthehouse, Ishallmeltintothemusicofthefluteandthrobinyourheartallday.
Dearauntiewillcomewithpuja-presentsandwillask, “Whereisourbaby, sister?” Mother, youwilltellhersoftly, “Heisinthepupilsofmyeyes, heisinmybodyandinmysoul.”
