Being a city-monk, I have walked enough.
Enough I have wandered on the pied myna’s foot
in the pompous sun of electricity to look for art’s food.
In anger, grievance and pain, I have spitted much
on the face of capitalism and imperialism.
Uttering the name of humanity, I have passed many black days
on the high way wet with blood. Singing of paper-flowers
and stone-paradise, the cuckoo’s throat in the long run
has got tired.
Now soil calls me. The coolness of intense green
and the silence of unbounded blue call me.
Two banks of the Kapatakkha river and the fig-trees
standing on those banks call me for ever.
I will go back to the soil where my fore-fathers
are taking eternal rest.I will go back
to the shade of trees, the fields of grass
and the maddening perfume of Shefali flowers.
A magpie whistles in the darkness-wrapped morning air
sitting on the bough of horseradish tree. Drinking
its whistle like hemlock, I, the Socrates of poetry,
will lie for ever on the lap of eternity.
