Under this ashoka tree,
during the evening
of this month of caetra,
with or without work left pending,
I remain seated
and under the spell of delusion.

In this sweet spring month,
on a sweet sandal breeze,
the bee comes rushing about
in the hope of honey.

Engrossed in pain,
the dropped leaf cries out
with the burning sensation of separation.

The ashoka tree has dried out.
Its leaves and flowers are no longer.

The bees have left the path
and shed tears
in memory of that tree bereft of honey.