It was said- he was a great poet a great sage
No perhaps an architect of revolution-
Anyway, he was somebody.. To the eyes of our rupees
All of them look alike-mere garbage of history
To be blown off by the winds-

One day he died, but no star dropped in my song.
Our planet did not lose even a smile,
The face of not a single flower faded.
They all knew that time had turned a page.

In the front yard the dog is barking out of duty.
A boy, sitting before a lamp is reading
The lessons aloud to make father believe; a
Traveller, frightened by the darkness sings in raised
Voice along the way; someone is twisting the ears
Of a violin it is groaning, and drooping over the darkness.

That song I was singing, in which child’s ear it drowned, I don’t know,
But in the throat of that child who sleeps on a hungry stomach,
Moves a ring of fierce laughter of arrogant palaces,
Of cities, and towns; in his crying voice a civilisation
Hangs a head in shame. That innocent child, who came
With heavens in his fists is sleeping likea tear.

O rosebush! Don’t sing if you have any shame.
Vomit out all those bulbuls from your throat.
Tell the pitcher to wake the bays of all sleeping streams
For the sun is up. Ask them to bring the lucid dreams
Of still waters, in which the dawn has just melted.
I am coming-as a red red cock with keys of the east in my hand-
- Seshendra Sharma