The Roots of Living

No haven, no house, nor a lea
I don’t even pride a roof over me.

I dig below dry stubble
On damp roots stumble,
And scratch the soles of my feet
to get blood’s true drift.

             [ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]

 
My Song

Pledged to deciphering the mundane
I am a poet, simple and plain;
A sense of grave unease, consequently
Is unwarranted in me.

The song that dabs the new born with death
Is familiar territory
I celebrate rather the balmy nights I know
Life’s rich loam, the unsung hymn of art
And help a sinewy poem grow.
Ever awake in my womb at night
The seed of words, the song of light,
of those who love me, feed and clothe me
And wipe off my tears with tender hands
This drill, these my known wars sustain
The drift of life, its subtle reading.

             [ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]

 
A Rare Bird

I am aware where the farmer in his farmstead
And the woman in her slum are nightly slaughtered
I know too, how eccentric distortions
get vulgar acceptance and pass as art.

Here the river blesses sprouting crops and their roots
and it is here that people lose a patch
of the dark soil of their dreaming

A dead artist’s gift remembered
incites the feelings
and the stern tree bends in grief.

It’s scaring the way animals hunt here
some just knock your shelters to the ground
while others whet a taste for human flesh

It has come to such a pass
even if his flute emits a lone note
predators stalk and kill the unwary cowherd.

Such a pass that
even he is a rare bird of poetry
who has found a friend in each standing tree.

             [ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]