|PRASANNA KUMAR MISHRA
THE GHOST OF THE UNBORN
All your breasts
overflow with milk.
Overbrimmed pitchers, spilling water,
Mothers ! You'll pass this way !
On this path, from the river.
Dripping milk, you'll pass by,
drop by drop...
unable to give birth to me,
I died without being born.
Same womb, same flower, same pain,
and the accumulated milk meant for me, dying;
now in this tree like an unseen bird
I perch, oh mother!
Like you, too my mother
used to fetch water from the river,
I could have been born from your womb too,
I too could have been cradled in your arms,
I too could have reached for the milk in your breasts,
and I too could have been the star of your eye.
But I have no lips,
and thirst cries on only for milk.
This way you will always pass by,oh mothers,
I could have been your child too.