LAXMI NARAYAN MAHAPATRA
CHILDREN ARE NOT HOME
The children are not home, they are gone.
The home is empty and rooms so blank.
Void spreads, layer by layer like slough
The time has no throb of life
for it is still
and dead like the vast eternity.
Moments born of Time,
the fond mother of all
search for their playmates
for it is the time for play.
The children are not home, they are gone
The walls are mute
and the floor of my room
seems like an old lady
that has suddenly stopped telling tales
to children fond of her tales.
The rooms are blank and stillness hangs
from the ceiling
that seeks to be thrilled to life.
The floor seeks
the words of a coaxing mother
and the look of fear and helplessness
that once kept it alive andgay.
The eyes rub my limbs
and set balloons high
letting them soar with laughter
that cannot be easily grasped.
The children are not home, they are gone.
From afar I can see
the soft palms like tender leaves
glistening in the light
of the eyes beyond the gate.
Are they speaking to me or telling a tale
of fairies in gardens
or knights in the woods?
Suddenly I leap
to the street bathed in the sun
leaving this lonely room, vast and blank
and there I can feel
the uproar of my children giggling
or the language of eyes
in their wistful liberty.
But the street becomes a stretch of void
and the trees stare on
with mute eyes that cannot see the fun.
I return to the room
and switch on the fan.
As I close my eyes I feel,
my body dissolving by degrees
slowly and slowly
the uproar of children come
floating to my ear
like the fainting waves of a distant sea.
And in me the waves dance eagerly.
And that faint uproar
of my children cacklingis transformed
into a bright flood of light in me.
In me the smiles of flowers of charming
colours take to wings.
The blankness of the room
dissolves in me.
I am lost in reverie
and silence is drowned
in that enthralling noise.
that plaintive note fades
from my mind.
I ask myself :
Are not the children home ? Are they gone ?
Translation :
The poet
 |