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My Story

I have nothing to excite myself
Neither books on the art of making love
Nor talk of war
Nor soft beds
Nor legs nor night

The itinerary that followed the rape
Has filled me with grief
My modesty is my need
It has often left me naked

Wherever I go
I find bodies
Creeping towards shadows
With unmistakable insolence
There are furnaces everywhere
Everywhere people warm up their modesty
On the crumbling slopes of age
And hammer nails at different places---
That experiences may stay
People often weave among themselves
A complex pattern
That perhaps
They may survive death
Though for a short while

Whenever I have chanced to look into
The dark recesses of life
I have seen there---
A blind slope stands
Loaded with bullock-carts
On its back
( In which there are skeletons )
Though this is true---
When I am on the roads
In the midst of discussions
I chirp irresistibly
But every time I return home
In the room's loneliness
I stink
Like the foot
That has just been taken
Out of the shoe.

Translated by Ramakant


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