Ootacamund

In the Nilgiri Hills
I went looking for the Todas.
Their temples are cone-shaped and are stables.
This, bearded, impenetrable,
they milk their sacred buffaloes
murmuring incoherent hymns.
They guard a secret from Sumeria,
not knowing that they guard it.
Between the thin, dry lips of the elders
the name of Ishtar, the cruel goddess,
shines like the moon on an empty well.

On the verandah of the Cecil Hotel,
Miss Penelope (canary-colored hair,
woolen stockings and walking stick) has been saying
for thirty years: Oh India,
country of missed opportunities . . .
Above,
in the fireworks
of the jacaranda,
the crows
happily cackle.

Tall grass and low trees.
Uncertain ground. In the clearings
the winged termites construct
tiny Cyclopean castles.
Homages in sand to Mycenae and Machu-Picchu.

Leafier and more brilliant,
the need is like an ash:
a singing tree.

A vision on the mountain road:
the rose camelia tree
bending over the cliff.
Splendor in the sullen green,
fixed above an abyss.
Impenetrable presence,
indifferent to vertigo-and language.

The sky grows in the night,
eucalyptus set aflame.
The charitable stars
not crushing- calling me.