A Poem For Baba

This winter's fog

is like your grandma

like the grey gruel of her eyes

the jute-hair on her head;

the blurred skies of her looks

are the white patches of winter on the hills

with the tortured memory of dead worlds.

And she comes just as before

wrapped in a white shawl

bending on a stick

and behind her

countless rivers, waves, currents

endless roads, thirsts and tired faces.

Beneath her white shawl

all the dried-up milk

all those endless warm times

now grown cold.

The stars of your eyes

snatch away from my eyes

so many toys, their broken hands, legs, wheel

springs, pipes and numerous colours.

Someday my eyes too had done that

from your grandma's eyes

many stories, many songs

many kites and balloons beyond the skies

many tears, nightmares and the faces of old witches.

The sky of your eyes

is like my mother's

dark waves, dark clouds and the blue butterflies of your eyes

let them drink the honey of sunshine, clouds and the spring

and go across the school lessons, hockey and football

falling in love and writing love-letters

all the decay and loss, diseases and wants;

let the sky of your eyes go beyond boundless space

endless Time and the inexorable motion of Death

just as my mother's eyes.

This winter's fog climbs the steep of the hill

bent and resting on the stick

and beneath its white shawl

how many trees, thorns, wildflowers

the fangs of man-eating tigers

the wings of doves, the songs of crickets

the shadow of bats' wings and the sparkling stars

like the broken splinters of her house !

This winter's fog will climb

the steep of the hills and go beyond

the sky of your eyes

across the clouds of my eyes to your grandma

across the endless Time extending 

to the horizons, to the seas and births

slipping from the star of your eyes.

And this winter's fog only my mother's

your grandma's ancient skin

the endless skies of her white shawl;

and so today I die in the star of your eyes

in the unending cycle of the rise and dissolution 

of my many births and deaths.

Poet- Guru Prasad Mohanty
Translated by Sitakant Mahapatra