The procession did not come,

there is no clicking of horse feet,

there is no color of weddings

there is no youth-fed heat.

Like the lonely tree,

with white hair in braids,

with a white sari around my waist,

drinking sips of compulsion,

weeping waters of lamentation,

I am waiting. Always.

This is an endless wait.

Your dreams,

my dreams.

Shared dreams.

It only takes one gust of the wind

and the dreams in my eyes are scattered.

It only takes a throw of the rock

and the dreams in my eyes are shattered.

It only takes a parting

and dreams in my eyes are splattered.

I cannot trick my eyes.

I cannot color the white of my sari

in the red dye of youth.

I cannot flower with the rhododendrons,

I cannot smile with those rhododendrons.

I cannot hide faults and ugliness

and blossom like the flowers.

 

In the fire
 

Weeping, weeping,

even eyelashes tired.

The sky looked for a rest.

After the long wait when I saw clean skies

and laughter, I too laughed.

I was delirious in my joy.

I began to think life a great gift.

Then why this sudden change?

Why do I see all over face

black clouds swarming?

All over chest

lines of ghostly light.

They are covering the skies that just cleared.

They are hurting the skies that just smiled.

I do not know a lot, I know.

I do not know why your face is sad,

I do not know there is wine in your eyes,

I do not know the pain in your heart.

But please let me go.

I want to free from this bond I do not know.

I want to be light. I want to dance.

Your tears cannot cool me down,

they only make me restless.

Your tears give me pain, burning,

they leave behind a hurt.

Your tears are not tears,

they are red-hot metals.

They explode

from earth’s bottom.

These are flames that fly

from eyes of the mighty god:

they engulf me,

they burn me,

make a sacrifice

of me.

 

The love of my land

 

The love of my land is in my heart

and I am elsewhere.

I am translated into the sound of rifles,

I am translated into the sound of cannons

in this dry land that knows me not.

My land is moving in my heart,

my sand is sparkling in my heart:

like a temple that faith has built,

like the faith the temple has built.

Land where Buddha was born and Everest stands

is shimmering in my dreams.

But at this time, neither my wounded shoulder

nor my wounded heart

can feel the warm touch of a mother’s hand,

the open smiles of my daughters and son.

 

This earth
 

Yo! Sudhama!

Return. Get back.

Don’t go there

with a fistful of broken rice.

You won’t find

gifts of love there.

No one will give fresh fruit to you.

After years of fulfilling sex,

after a long long journey,

shadows refuse to recognize you,

the age is not yours. Clearly.

The age is of Kuber, lords of wealth.

The age is of Urbasi and Menaka, ladies of lust.

The air is defiled

by smelly breaths.

The land stinks,

it is rotting flesh.

Your existence

has no value there.

Each lump of earth

sings hymns of wealth.

Each stone

worships lust and flesh.

Come back!

Don’t step there.

The land that is green

is not pleasant, it is green with nettles.

Be careful!

Learn to recognize nettles.

Learn to know where earth stops

air begins.

Sudhama, get back.

This is not your age.

This is the age of rich men

and lovely young women.