Scratch of Sunshine
Eyes of a man lying on the back draw the sky of the roof
When the stars die the melting nights come to know–
Poems brought waves during the strikes of rivers.
We learnt that time that we shouldn’t ascend
to the peak as very short it is;
We know our handfuls of rivers had never risen to the peak.
If you read the manuscript of fall
in reference to the tress of relations
You’ll see dusts cover up history,
and wind also feels scratches of sunshine.
Flocks of darks scavenges the rise up-to-top–
Fall follows a principle– history of hate does too.
Eternally-blind terrorism of light seemingly
draws picture in the whole blue;
Treating me as mad spreading night engulfs and eats me.
The painter seems to be a cheat; the detective crow doesn’t
find me before and after the procession!
Take this evening river–
have a drunken sip when the sun dies
And my pocket is full with the thirsty sky of Chaitra;
The nights wake up raising slogans in the brain
–to demand for light.
The river doesn’t rise to the peak–
one who rises is burnt by extreme hate.
Nights of April
I don’t see you. See the river of the old night flies over
in the window like blue fringe of your saree.
Who they are uttering ravings in April?
The shoals of anguished fish with mouthful eggs
cross over the dark passage of Time;
Miles of black night awake with dreams in eyes.
These dreamful rivers of dawns being winged clouds
fly away in Kalidasa’s Sravan-evening.
Ah! The Princess’s eyes get full of sleep and dreams.
When the golden sticks break down,
The silver sticks begin to love the moon in dark.
Yet the sun continues to migrate.
I sit in the window and see the trees
enjoy songs in the tranquil ears of wind.
If anyone’s sigh burns piles of fallen leaves,
blue and red palaces of eternal myths break down;
Yet more dear are alluring lies, not the truth!
When the sky flies in gloomy evening nowadays,
Sleepless Kadam recognizes well hairs of Parbati.
A great mystery it is, you know–
Having got me alone, the old April nights
arouse my body with waves of lust and love.
You pass the black night gazing at my eyes
Rock inscriptions of Asoka remain grayish forever.
You don’t come near me, yet I embrace you in dreams.
Red Fly
I wake up hearing songs of a red fly
And see you before my eyes–
You are sitting alone being co-wife of blind river!
Forgetting numbers of streams, I began to sing
in your name notations of a chubby evening.
The patrician night had slept for days in our south veranda
but never had I practiced any songs of night.
A baul I was; had I never walked in the spreading fields?
But sounds of my footsteps you had always heard.
The sun sets in the brain of the blind night, and the field
I traverse alone where the red fly awakes.
I don’t want anyone in my bed of this sun-shone night!
Translated by Nazib Wadood
Comments
0 comments
Nice