What if I were to see her, twenty years hence? Once again, twenty years hence- Maybe by the paddy sheaths In the month of Kartik- At a time for the crows to roost, And the yellow river to flow ever so softly, Through the reeds and grass by the fields.   Paddies are gone, harvest is done. Nothing to rush about; The duck’s nest loses a straw, The bird’s nest loses a straw, The night reposes in Munia’s place Soaked in wintry dews.