Mirabai in the Mountains

The moon was perched

like a golden hawk on the mango tree.

I knew the moon was like me–in heat, crazed and hunting.

So I climbed up there with that wild old gal thinking:

two drunk beauties like us will surely

snag Krishna with our eyes.

Reading the very wonderful sixteenth century Indian poet Mirabai, on a sunny September day in the Pyrenees

The wild words of Mirabai in the mountains