Varnamala : Contemporary Oriya Poetry




I am born of the dark  
of a wanton pleasure  
where the faces of all  
the hungry men look alike.  

The one in the guise  
of a stigmaless light  
pushing me from the dark  
towards the blue carnival of death  
is my mother,  
I am her bastard son.  

does anyone have  
any definite address ?  
Tomorrow we will be driven out  
of the inn of blood-and-flesh.  
Then you and me are the same.  
does history have any worth at all ?  

Here in this blind colony  
the only difference is this :  
you are the mirror of  
a lake in a frame,  
I am a flashline of lightning:  
now I am, then nowhere.  

Yet called from behind  
I turn back only to find  
all the males and females  
look alike :  
blurred and weird,  
all of them are my kin,  
but I am no one's child.  

Nobody can tell truth from falsehood;  
all of them slaves of hungry fire.  
So nothing hurts me,  
not even an unwary father  
cohabiting his daughter.  

A bastard though,  
I am a flawless sculpture  
of the unalloyed man.  

May you call her a whore  
but she is the one  
who wets my dry lips  
with the brushes of her nipples,  
I call her :  
Mother !  

Translation :
Rabindra K Swain  

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