On the mythic enchantress's open navel fall
the stars and the dew all through the night, silently.
On the steps of the temple's pond,
on the large shoulders of the wise Ganesa
are washed the greasy patchwork garments
of tradition and history.
Like the blind whimsical gods, or sometimes
like a sudden rush of wind, two or four bats
fly out from inside the dark along
the sharp lines of an indifferent sky
towards an uncertain tomorrow.
The long, unending afternoon comes to an end.
From some faraway place comes creaking
the sound of the bullock-cart's wheels.
It seems as though in a moment
time would stop—
over the distant untilled fields,
in the evening's lonely darkness.
Who calls whom—
so affectionately, full of desire and grief, greedily
(in this life, in the other life) ?
The smile on the water's broad and shining face,
like the gesture of a sudden wish, pulls
the temple's shadow and the rising moon
together, lovingly.
The long day ends, waiting.
The leprous beggar-woman begins to think—
if only some poor helpless worshipper should arrive
before she left the place
with her day's last weary yawn.
Translation :
Bibhu Padhi
