THE SPRING

Halfknown, halfstranger 
one to the other 
all of us 
in spring time 

Earth-crawling creeper 
suddenly stands up 
like a twisted goldstick 
and then shivers 
The viewer gets numbed 

Cruel her stare 
like the breasts 
of a girl in early teens 
His eyes get lowered 

Buds of white thirst 
sprout on tiny shoots 
and yet 
the root drinks fire 

You, hot rock floor, 
give up your dream 
of rising like a minar 
melt and confess 
the defeat 

Thunder this time 
shall not strike 
though sky 
may collapse 
Only a peacock-plume 
dropping down and down 
will touch tenderly 
the tip of consciousness 
of the green shoots 
at the top. 

There's no horn, 
no nail, no tooth,
no prick—
you, handsome one, debonair,
raise your eyes
you, innocent one !

Thirst is the pitcher,
It's drinkable, too;
take a palmful, 
drink.

In gentle-wild anger
it gets injured—
the sitar in the lap.
Fire of root on the lips :
touch it, 
taste it.

If a minar bends down 
does a cannon
get born ?

From the root to the top
today it's all buds,
watery.
Even if a cannon bursts
today,
colours squirt through.

Today 
it's spring time—
Even betrayal
is love 
today.


Translation :
Rabindra K Swain