Spring enters this city
without warning
But before it comes
from Lahartara or Maduwadeeh
a squall rises to leave dust
on the tongue of this
city more ancient than any.

Everything that is
is more restless than
everything that is not tries to be.
On visiting Dashashwamedh
even the stone-steps of the ghat seem soft,
and the eyes of the monkeys
water strangely.
The emptiness in the beggars' bowls
begins to brighten.

Have you ever witnessed
the filling of empty bowls by the spring?
This city unfolds thus,
thus it fills and then it empties out.
Day after day
the endless chain
of bodies carried on shoulders
to the shining Ganga
from night's dark streets.
Dust in this city rises slowly,
slowly people walk,
slowly the gongs peal,
slowly it is evening.

This slowness,
this collective rhythm
of everything happening slowly
tightens up the whole city.
So that nothing ever falls,
nothing is shaky.

Everything keeps
its accustomed place Ganga
The anchored boat
and the wooden shoes
Tulsidas walked in
are all in their timely place.
If you ever happen
to be in Banaras unexpectedly
some evening
and see it in the glow
of lamps, lighted;
you shall see a Magic City,
partly in water, partly in mantras
partly in conches, partly in flower
partly in corpses, partly in sleep.

If you see carefully
partly it is and partly it is not.
What there is
stands without support,
What is not
is held up
by tall
pillars of ash and light, pillars of fire,
pillars of water, pillars of smoke
and fragrance,
pillars of human hands upifted.
Offering water to an unseen sun
for centuries
the city stands on one leg in water,
without knowing
where its other leg is.