Varnamala : Contemporary Oriya Poetry




Sprinkling my impure blood  
I have purified my yard  
I have arranged rows of wick-lights,  
bright with sin,  
I have made my nightmares stand,  
bowing their heads as arches  
and have gone on pouring  
the welcome song of liquid silence  
from my broken heart.  

My house only awaits  
the touch of your feet  
to be glorified.  

I have kept with me  
the storm of sighs,  
my half-hidden moon  
and a tearful rain  
so that there will be no omen  
on your good wishes for us.  
Do I dare to name  
this house of pretension  
as a temple ?  
The only thing is that  
on the touch of your feet  
my house shall be glorified.  

With the delay in your arrival,  
the thatch of the house  
has started flying off  
and the wall collapsing.  
The roaring forty has already  
announced your non-arrival.  

That this house is yours, 
the ominous hawk has  
gone past, declaring it.  

It is to your house  
that you should have come.  
Why should I be anxious  
at all ?  
Translation :
Rabindra K Swain  

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