The
sky is not cloudy
Suppose
you and … no, you’re going alone
sniffing
the greens, holding triffling grass in
your hands
as
if need not hurry, as if you need not be busy
at all.
Sea
on your south, hills on your north, -no, nothing
more
It’s
history behind you-and what more in your front ?
Suppose
you’re going, a lonely walker you’re
Roots
grow like fingers in your hands, as if they are
fingers
Bones
sound like music, as if they are marrows
Your
skin beams with non-Aryan beauty, smooth
and brown
you’re
going, a lonely walker you’re
Suppose
two thousand years you’ve been walking for.
Killer
of your father is an Aryan
a
Mughal has killed your brother
an
English has robed you of all
And
you’re going. a lonely walker you’re
Suppose
two thousand years you’ve been walking for.
Formal
processions on your south, death-signs on
your
north
Defeat
and shame behind you, and what more in
your front ?
You’re
going, no, you’re not alone, you and history
suppose
your fleet takes off from Tamralipti
suppose
spinning machines in every house, the sound
of its weaving
a-hearing
you’re going to Mahua’s land, to Vati’s
Zone
Remember
the sitting of pala-songs, remember the
cloud-coloured women
her
eyes bent on your bosom.
her
lips, purple and trembling
You’re
going, two thousand years you’ve been
walking for.
Blood
on your right, blood an your left
Blood
behind you, blood and defeat
and what more in your front ?
Rudra
Muhammad Shahidullah
(1956-1991)