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.
