TRANSLATED FROM THE HINDI BY SHUBHA SUNDAR GHOSH
I saw one dream pecking the body of another.
I were to shift the lines within my palms but saw them crawling up on my brow
While trying to glow, A city swept past.
Thats all that happened. Now, I wait,
for when would a straight road reach the shop
piercing through the farm. SCARS OF ENGRAM
Without clasping the wrists slumber, not once, drew nigh.
The incessant grasps begun to leave their traces on the wrists.
The traces turned into scars without a discern.
The nights have always been an issue between two dates, that the lustrous days never are.
A thought frequents me about why the issue always
clings itself on to the wretched nights.
It can also be noticed during the days when
all of a sudden, a chatty girl mutes herself and sits down.
The fire is cold long back But the embers kept ablaze
The issue actually is a choice, of either burning away, bit by bit or blazing up all at once.
Whereas the mind
is in an eternal flame, concealing and dismissing
the truth of a complete burnout. THIS VERY DAY IS SPRING FLOWER 1
Salt and grass are for the perpetuity
but the most amiable are the flowers.
In the abundance of love, people of the every day breaks it apart.
They go to weddings in the morning And visit funeral ceremonies at night just as I do.
For me to do so
is similar to moving into two distinct rooms.
of adoration is on a high rise
A flower pops upon
the posters gratuitously.
My fondness for the flowers continues to wither away.
In a bouquet of flowers
the barbs keep blending in with ease.
And in the name of the flowers
they act like the knives within the sleeves.
A head held high with the hands kept low
can easily be annihilated with reasoning and a wreath of flowers
round it’s neck.
Also, read Photographing / Writing: A testimony and a reflection by Liliana Grueff, translated from the Italian by Brenda Porster published in The Antonym: