The Immigrant Woman

Mid-monsoon fields of ripening green,
beside them a dirty canal flows, unseen,
black water tangled in weeds that gleam,
bamboo scaffolds rise from the stream.
 
At dawn, in the hush of waking air,
farmers lift bundles of golden grain fair,
last year’s harvest piled high in decay,
still holding what time could not sweep away.
 
By noon, with weary bodies sore,
they return and lean on the courtyard floor.
Muscles loosen, breathing slow,
watching the sky where memories go.
 
Whispers of yesterday fill their eyes,
children and elders gaze at the skies.
Snakes without venom play in the weeds,
life repeats in its simplest needs.
 
And there—on bamboo frame she bathes,
her wet cloth clings, her body sways.
Droplets fall, curve down her breast,
muscles stir in secret unrest.
 
A patch of earth, still dry, grows wet,
a mirror of sky in the water is set.
Clouds of autumn, pale and kind,
others dark, with fatigue entwined.
 
Stone by stone the edges rest,
fields hold houses on the crest.
Distant rail with iron sound,
where horizon kisses ground.
 
There she stands—
a farmer’s daughter, orphaned young,
her body ripe as fields unsung.
Bronze-dark skin, metallic glow,
a tempest of strength the muscles show.
 
Her eyes, like flames, a dazzling snare,
casting a spell no shame can wear.
Before dusk melts to dreaming shade,
her lashes strike like fireblade.
 
And she whispers—
soft yet bold,
a promise, a plea,
a story told:
 
“Will you take me with you,
to the city’s gate?
Before the twilight
turns too late?”