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Anubhav Tulasi


Like the thorns
Something is there
In the rain too.

Leaning against a pillow
It wants to settle itself
And burn the dreams Wth the wicker.

To the murmuring ghat of an unseen river
The rain leads me.

I deck on the candle stand
The blooming drops of rain.

The rain tills me
And in its heart
The paddy seedling I plant.

Sometimes I fly kites
With the rain

We both play
The game of snapping strings.

Translated by Niren Thakuria

A Magician Who First Brought Love

I smelt a flower in your river.
The erosion has begun since.

The fire began to fly the air,
The ocarina in the stream
The lac of heart begun to melt.

That day
On a curved knife
I was scaling
The live fish of life.

That was the beginning of love
I smelt a flower
With the roots
On water
The bare tree
Was floating.

Translated by Niren Thakuria

Breaking The Window Panes

Who whimpers down broken panes
may be the sky somewhere is overcast
or is it a cascading of the past?

My winged eyes discern
shapes beyond the window
it is my heart perhaps
that needles me with broken panes

twigs reach out
in importunate beckoning

putting out the lamp
you are sitting cloistered
in the depth of darkness

the bastion of whimpering

Translated by Pradip Acharya

Of Inundation

After long years of inundation
the river is the story, mainly,
I shed my clothes long ago
had left them somewhere in the past
Today, Iíll step into the water
For, at the bend of the road
Strewn with fallen flowers
storm and flood still rage frenzied.

Translated by Pradip Acharya

The Flood Will Come Again On Saturday

The flood will come back on
Under incessant downpour the
leaking fragrance

Relief coming to the camp on
Misery will setup its hearth
on my chest

Monday to flute and folksong
A whole cowshed full of yeaning
will climb the hill
Most Tuesdays you com
To gather fire-wood of famished

Trusting to plantain-raft
I shall send the oar for
the unfinished work

Thursday the milky rice will rot
Flesh and Blood will topple with

On Fridayís slippery road shall
approach the cremation-ground

To smell the flower
of the whirlpool
of my death.


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