Sweet song
Dipping the pen in the blood
Thrown out of the eyes of an epileptic
Who has fallen flat in a fit
I am writing
Striking the pen deep in the wails
Emitted by the feeble cow of an earth-digger
That has collapsed in a heap
I am writing
Not that dreams bear fruit
But even that they put out shoots
Seems but a dream
Look at the darkness crawling
Around the shade of the lamp on its stand
The daughter you had sold out is having
Her meal of misery at her in-laws’ house
Where are the measurements for womanly modesty
That has been outraged in the enveloping dark?
How can a nightingale sing a Sweet Song
Having eaten bittersweet turgs?
Ten are squatting on the life-breath
Of one-half of all men in so big country.
It is not on paper but on the entrails of the poor
That the Minister for Taxes has inscribed
His budget this time.
How long more are you going to cry:
`Hey Ram! Hey Ram!’
Open clear eyes and break out in revolt
Like Alluri Seetarama Raju.
***
1963
Translated by KVR