To speak about poetry is as difficult
As to wake up one feigning sleep.
How densely the poets condense their spirit in time!
Whenever you recollect them
They overwhelm their subjects like tides.
“Chalam’s “Savitri” came to life, perhaps,
Not out of his pen but of his voice.
Even poetry becomes poetry
Only when it swells out of its source
Unable to stay silent any longer.
For a poet to dream about poetry every hour
Is like conferring a ‘Laureate’ on him.
How wholly it churns the heart, poetry!
To pass the grace of words
Over the dancing eyelids
In tune with the corrugated movements of the brow
Jumping over the barrage of heart
‘Tributary’ing sonorously into the ears…
To swish the sword of poetry endlessly
From the dense cumulus clouds of heart
To the dried up terrains of men…
To feel poetry as easily as one speaks ..
And to recreate it as happily time and again…
Well! Can a poet’s heart ever turn to a desert?
Will his pen ever stop even if his clock stops?
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Translated by N.S.Murthy
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