Varnamala : Contemporary Oriya Poetry




The horizon between  
the sea and the sky  
fastens my sorrows  
stretching over miles of lands  
and frays its gap.  
The wind blows in  
the perfumes of a frozen laugh.  

Time whacks its way  
into the void of my life  
broken sighs of a treacherous love  
in the past, sears my heart.  
Tempered with hate  
it wets my  
sorrows and the sea.  

A frightful season  
like the shrill of a  
hill-area cuckoo,  
peaceful and slow.  
Time keeps no record  
of our rendezvous  
or of my lewd thoughts  
caught in the sky's stupor  
your carved thighs  
like floating waves.  

Today—countless loves.  
Myriads of strange forms  
on mysterious mirrors.  
You can pat their blood  
spy into their ills.  
Wind burrs on the spurred  
branches, breathless and bright,  
its luscent whispers all flying  
from unwelcome seasons.  

This landscape—better not to have.  
This life--better not to live  
This earth—better not to touch  
My love!  
I have layers of sorrows  
the sandalpaste of my life.  
A throbbing emptiness  
of earth in the thirsty seas  
circling round my  
drab existence.  

Smile a little, at least for  
the sake of my child in your womb  
life dribbles out  
like drops of tears  
in wounded springs.  
The tears roll in clouds,  
the clouds let loose a river  
the river seeps into a sea.  
The sea's thick efforts  
listlessly hurl the sky  
and the sea-bound streams.  

Translation :
The Poet   

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