With the herald of spring,
I can see the palash trees,
Small, of a wild variety
Dotting the Santhal Parganas,
Tribal and hilly domains
In full bloom.
The leafless trees,
But full with the clusters of
Reddish blossoms
Hanging by
And the black cuckoos cooing
Sweetly.
The Indian cotton tree leafless,
But full of big, scentless, bulging blooms,
But without the vultures
Which once used to sit,
Now scarcely to be sighted
Anywhere anymore,
The big birds
