Plain Talk
It is hard to be clean
After the lines are drawn
Nor it is good to have etiquette
While talking about Naxalbari
It does not suit to tune anger
As profound as singing anguish
The wailing about
The blood stained hands
Should be at the top of your voice
But beside an obscure poem
Smelling new paper or printing ink
Nothing could be recognized
Except your photo
An eagle in the skies
Or a bear in the woods
Or a racing hound
Sniffs anything easily
Why don't you speak out about
That which all of us react to
When even the nascent flowers
Are soaked in blood
You cannot conceal ideas
Within diapers or layers
The hands that clean the wounds
The hands that aim arrows
The hands that compose tunes
Have become open sores being wet for long
They have become the hardened blood
Turned to people's flags after song and dance
Duty of a chisel is
To fill life into stone
But not turning life into a sculpture
Turn of phrase, don't get scared
Come out with plain speak
That touches the heart
***
July 10, 1989
Translated by N Venugopal