మళ్ళీ మళ్ళీ అలా వ్యర్థంగా ఆగుతూ, చూస్తూ, వింటూనే ఉన్నాడు.
మనసులోని భయాన్ని చెవులు రట్టుచేస్తున్నాయి.
ఆర్. ఎస్. థామస్.
వేల్సు కవి, క్రైస్తవ మతాచార్యుడు.
(29 March 1913 – 25 September 2000)
The Lonely Farmer
Poor hill farmer astray in the grass: There came a movement and he looked up, but All that he saw was the wind pass.
There was a sound of voices in the air, But where,where? It was only the glib stream talking Softly to itself. And once when he was walking Along a lane in spring he was deceived By a shrill whistle coming through the leaves: Wait a minute, wait a minute — four soft notes; He turned, and it was nothing, only a thrush In the thorn bushes easing its throat.
He swore at himself for paying heed, The poor hill farmer, so often again Stopping, staring, listening, in vain, His ear betrayed by the heart’s need.