At Raka it was dead of winter, at Murwa near winter, in Rohagaon the deep autumn; in the valley that leads down to Tibrikot, the walnut trees are still in leaf, and green ferns grow among the copper ones along the watercourses, and I meet a hoopoe; swallows and butterflies flit through the warm air. And so I travel against time, in the weary light of dying summer.
