These palm trees cogitate in groups,
Just as our mild-mannered cattle do,
Casting their dark brooding shadows
On the limpid waters of paddy fields
In the sowing season their shadows
Tickle our women’s bare naked feet
Submerged in soft knee-deep slush
When fields turn brown in summers
Our palms sport their golden fruits.
The male one in the shadowy corner
Has no fruits, only snakelike fingers.
We love it all the same for its shade.