It would try to lisp a dumbness sometimes—
the language of welts rising slowly on the panes,
a cracked blur of riot-torn air,
confused which year it was.

The last time it made a sound was when
it crinkled on its way into a bin,
a great plot of justice. I wasn’t born, then;
my father was.

It must have been whole once,
for you could still conceive it like a dream,
a gloriously illegitimate thing, though;
until a country was torn out of its heart one day
and you saw its impaled ghost in the moon.

My grandfather told me we had slept so long
with a flag over us, we couldn’t run when
machetes poked us awake amidst still-dreaming heads
rolling in the streets like marbles struck in game.

There was nowhere to go and we went nowhere,
with its face slumped on our backs
and history books that said what had happened is the past,

until sixty years later, a community’s threats betraying
her voice, a poor nun requested me
to leave my month-old job in a convent
where I’d studied since childhood.

I keep trying to find its shape in photographs, old letters,
the wind of stories trapped in some cancerous throat, dying ...

a tattered roof in the stars, a tent flying off
with meanings barely gathered into a heap.


पाऊस भीतीचा कोसळतो

रात्र अंधारी अशा एकांती
चिंब भिजून अंगा भिडतो
दुःख जगाचे नभी साठवून
रात्रंदिन का हा रडतो
पाऊस भीतीचा कोसळतो

वीज कडाडता घनी अंबरी
बिलगून तुझा उर धपापतो
सळसळ सळसळ पाने करुनि
भयसंगीत मनी छेडितो
पाऊस भीतीचा कोसळतो

मंद काजवा धुंद रातवा
पायी सरसर कुणी सरपटतो
भयकंपे काटा फुलुनि
अधिक बिलगण्या धडपडतो
पाऊस भीतीचा कोसळतो

आठवून भयरात्र पावसाळी
जीव अजुनही धडधडतो
एकमेकां असून तरूतळी
अंधारी प्रणय अवघडतो
पाऊस भीतीचा कोसळतो


Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, 
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom, 
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest, 
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast; 
She sits beneath the white thorn a-plaiting of her hair, 
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair; 
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest, 
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast. 

The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May, 
The merry bee is trampling the pink threads all day, 
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest 
In the white thorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast; 
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear 
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear; 
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away 
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day. 

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