To achieve this one unique word you do not

know how much, how hard I had to dig into

my soul.

I ran with flying birds, offering marks

blood to the earth with my wounded feet.

I joined the monks of flowers and immersed

in the colours of deep penance, in the forests;

shoulder to shoulder practiced hoarse voices with

wild winds, that come rubbing their skins

to the arctic regions;

Blew off myself into the wide seas, mixed

up with unruly cyclones; made at last the lap

of hills into my temple and became a god.

then all the sounds of creation came, with

halos around their heads, crowded the blue roads

of the sky, looking at me with strange satisfaction.

But I am now immersed in pure silence.

It is so profound that no one can

comprehend my condition.

For me now, there are no sunrises, there

are not sunsets, there are no colours, there are no

melodies.

There are no experiences known to any

of the human senses.

It is this moment that squeezes me, and

offers to you,

the heavy hot drop of a rare meaning...



In the forest of rays, I was badly bruised running,

Sharp rays pierced into the flesh all over my body;

There a lone tree, in full spring dropped a huge tear.

that tree had spread its shade once, over my tired body...

flowers are bound to bloom on the limbs

of the trees one day; my country should chop the

hands of butchers, who fell trees and run a saw

into their bodies.

Birds sing thoughts of the trees, poet sings

thoughts of the birds...

All do not know, only the branch which

lost the cuckoo knows what spring is, and only

the birds which lost their songs-

Spring is not the same spring, which every body believes;

It is a season when flowers sigh heavily.

The birds can fly away, but where can the

tree go? Even when cyclones besiege it the tree

stands rooted to the earth in determination,

its life dedicated to the soil;

like me, clinging to my country, though

I do not possess one inch of land in it.

Even the wind does not know when the

leaf falls. Bees are bidding farewell, to flowers, and

the stream of my village meanders, away far, far

into distant bushes, to sleep,

come, my feet, take me there.



CANTO V

O melody, hear me..

by what good luck I do not know,

a moment of vision came to me like a comet in the sky,

vision of cruel facts of life.

Now, don't cheat me by your charms and

infatuations. Don't make me forget my pains.

If I were to forget, all those that have to

be exploded with these very hands, they will

remain sage and secure, with a longer lease of life.

O flowers and voices, let me snatch my weapons.

Let me wake up those minds which are

sleeping snugly in that unbearable stink.

Let them be turned into violent winds.

Let me teach them the art of hatred. Let

me preach them how sacred is hatred. Let me

bestow on them with all the power of my blood,

the sacred gift of awakenment to hate.

Whether left in the air, or bound on paper,

let these words plant volcanoes in them,

let my volcanoes burst, don't stop this sacred explosion.

* * * *

The green parrots which I try to catch here

with silken threads of thoughts, escape, into

families of trees wounded by the hands of

merciless storms.

Life here, aborts, discharges dreams, with

undeveloped limbs and ugly shapes; these, some

vulture carries by the beak to the hill-tops, eats

and vomits them, upon the people, calling them

poems-

The child within the womb, better remain

in the womb in this land of ours; if it comes out

and complains of hunger, he will be shown

the foot paths and not the fields where the food grows-

Here even the sun falls out of the womb of every night,

a shapeless lump of flesh.

My days limp like colonies o lepers, my

dreams of future hiss and strike their fangs

into the flesh of my present nights.

Days of my country are boats that dash

against rocks and break, nights are worries that touch

the heart and burst into flames

Oh! Today I am ferocious dragon, made

with the hands of the repulsive puss oozing from

the body of my land.

* * *

The red fox, in the trees of my mind, keeps

on stirring, in and out of the thickets making

constant reconnoiters at something. eyes burning

like coals in the darkness for its unseen goal. it

punctuates my thoughts, interjects commas, colons,

interpolates hyphens, never introduces a full stop.

It brings more ideas from the sideways and

savannahs and swells up the procession of my

thoughts, arms them up with passionate emotions

and waits to see the procession burst out into plains

like an unshackled sea, wild and uproarious. the red fox

which feeds my mind withy flames, moves

like a fluttering red rag, with sinewy legs against

the storms that blow over as enemies of countries,

continents and nations.

Who created this red fox? Is it the two coals

that flickered in the thickets of a head, a

beard and whiskers? but

I am sure it is not Doulton of England!

* * * *

Some bird from somewhere comes on

wings, drops a song in my ears and flies away.

A line which conveys a real experience,

comes to you like a bird with life and a song....

Yes a life and song!

* * * *

Yes, this is the land where millions of stones live,

forlorn by their families of hills.

this is the land crushed under the

iron heels of grueling sun.

This is the land which spits flames

of mirages from her bloody wounds-

this is the dancing hall of the reckless flames of the sun's furry.

this is the land which is deserted by all

living beings, leaving it to the enormous void,

spreading from one end to the other end of the sky.

Here, nothing exists except a bird

and a tree.

The tree is perhaps the one who lost his way

from those families of trees, which migrated

to distant lands, in search of water.

Like tear of the tree, is the lonely tiller

with his plough; alone wrests the life-substance

from out of this niggardly rocky soil.

O! The arrogant sun rubs its muscles on

the cheeks of the tree. From what countries

do they come, these exiled whirlwinds, to take refuge here?

who said they are rocks? they are consciences who

gagged their mouths with their hands.

Who said they are flames of the sun?

They are armies of fire, invading on helpless rocks.

To history with me, these rocks also gave their

blood. Today they are mere rocks, but the

the sculptures of bygone empires were their dreams.

O toiler, over there with a plough in your

hand, you are not alone. Your journey cannot halt

merely as a drop of tear. There is another brother

who joins his footsteps with every one that you

tread on these stones, in other part of the earth remember-

In Iraq, in Japan, in Mexico, in the Far East or Mongolia-

Over these rough lands, flowing with tears of rocks,

A man will arise one day over whose body

iron muscles move as whirlwinds.

See, the ranges of mountains, how silently

they move in the distances, draping their shoulders

with 'Uparnas'(upper cloth on shoulders) of sun; they are prophets,

delivering commentaries on the depths of skies in

exalted tones, which you cannot comprehend!