O. N. V. Kurup
Stones splinter and lie scattered
in front of me all the way.
Stones that trip my legs,
stones nailing in sharp; stones
that poison the deep in me,
stones that measure and mark the earth,
stones sticking out ill-omens.
Yes, stones and stones all this way ---
Smooth, some rough ---
these beauty-spots of the earth,
they are at times ugly and raw.
Stones again, the sinners aimed
at poor Mary of the past;
( stones with blood-tinged curse on every lip ---
have we poked at their hearts for their kindness ? )
Stones with their branded foreheads
stand witness to the graves that hide
the lavish waste of lives
that ate, drank and died reckless :
Stones lost in the flow and falsehood of history;
stones that have by hearted the echoes of those
who thirsted to renew the land :
lives in thousands,
numb like dead stones,
somebody has trampled on.
Stones again, dreaming of some
divine touch of bliss;
stones, yes, the dark rock splinters in life
dare cap the caves of this wild of millions;
stones that boil like sun;
stones brimming like sad tears;
stones that darken like the night;
stone reddening like the dusk;
stones, time plays nickels and dimes,
they're the earth's still-borns,
an ever-forgiving mother's griefs.
Who can bring them back
carving life from their stone-blocks ?
Who can fiddle its hush into a song?
Come, Shiva and Shakti. Come,
come in a mighty hammer and a chisel
to dance over these stones t
Let these stones labour in pain,
beget children fit enough to create and destroy.
Translated by Joy T.R