I , in my dominion of carnal shelter
Saw two images, intricate to the fading imagery
Construed in peril and then dispatched in secrecy.
One of an usurper, his sad eyes seldom lied.
Spoke of red yolk of the sun, with the fragility of stumbling squirrels-
Images conjured to the soil, wet grasses of a far away summer meadow.
Dead to the outsider, debauched in alchohol
Pinnacle of death's armour, a lady once remarked
Only confused my separate self then
Who only glided in tricycle , while he warped in inexplicable madness.
Another lurked with chime, harnessing seasons with conferred finesse.
She poured on dead towns, while hers encircled topsy-turvies
Of known channels. Her hourly quartet warped manifolds of time
Widely and foaming to the singlehood of the lashing wrinkles.
Perplexed tricycles unfenced, staked hours to lid of metaphors
Only logics died then, to the sullenness of receding.
Translating Tagore. Again.
1 year ago