My poetry
My poetry
teases me,
it flings its hands about and talks.
If I were to speak coarsely,
I’d say it kicks me;
in refined and cultured language,
I’d say it rebukes me.
Sometimes it pokes
its finger in my eye
and says: “How can poetry
be written without tears?”
And when I fasten on its wings,
its soul converses with the supreme Soul
and soars up high
into the freedom of the sky;
it transcends the best there is.
Yet, in just a little while
it falls to the ground
like a kite whose string is cut;
or, dangling from a tree
or some balcony,
it gives me the news
that it is deceased.
Translated by Debjani Chatterjee
Page(s) 48-49
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