Ash moves in the room, printed in darkness <br />Paper, book, cover, painting, the call of dead birds--- <br />Ashes moving in the room, what is suppressed in the room <br />One trunk of stories wants to rise up from the floor <br /> <br />You have nothing to do: <br />you are the narrator <br />because once you took part in that story. <br />By pressing your own throat you strangled many times the shout of delight <br />You restrained the shout of delight when death was near..... <br /> <br />Are you dead? Or not? <br />Death appears, comes near, nearer, then disappears <br />This heart-breaking stress of pleasure, peculiar and unknown to you <br />Such a whip you have never felt before <br /> <br />What happened at last? After a torturous wait for her and your death-sucking lip <br />Overflowed the limit and the sky broke open. <br />Out rolled the storm of the destroyed <br />The storm of distress rolling onto the floor <br /> <br />But you are still restless, where, there is no peace, none--- <br />Fire does not descend, fire does not bow his head! <br />Where do you throw the flames, where should you, <br />With that thought the cloud bangs his head, sky! sky! <br /> <br />Where is the tree? Who can take the flames? <br />You have burnt tree after tree after tree, <br />With that test, in the burned out darkness <br />Ash moves in the room, paper, book, painting.... <br /> <br />Cover upon book--- inside the call of dead birds <br />Lightning flies, says, ‘will you be my dream tree?’ <br />Oh? Again? The floor of the room cracks--- <br />Void--- <br /> <br />One trunk of fiction emerging from the void, poet! <br /> <br /> <br />[Translated from 'Kahinikar' (Bengali) by Poet himself]<br /><br />Joy Goswami<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/narrator-2/
