It is late — so very late at night. <br />From one Calcutta sidewalk to another, from sidewalk to sidewalk, <br />As I walk along, my life's blood feels the vapid, venomous touch <br />Of tram tracks stretched out beneath my feet like a pair of primordial <br /> serpent sisters. <br />A soft rain is falling, the wind slightly chilling. <br />Of what far land of green grass, rivers, fireflies am I thinking? <br />Where are the stars? <br />Have those stars been lost? <br />Beneath my feet the slender tram track — above my head a mesh of tangled wires <br />Chastises me. <br />A soft rain falls, and the wind seems lightly chilling; <br /> <br />But you'll not see a single mallard's nest quiver in the face of this cold <br /> Calcutta wind so very late at night. <br />No dove will come to tell you of its broken sleep's soft bluish flavor, <br /> broken by olive leaves. <br />You'll not mistake a yellowed papaya leaf for an unexpected bird, <br />Nor will your eyes grow large with recognition as you comprehend creation as <br /> thick fog. <br />Nor will an owl rub her gray wings on an amlaki branch here, <br />Nor from that limb will sapphire dewdrops fall, <br />Nor will her call bring forth here stars like subtle fireflies, <br />Nor make the nighttime even bluer. <br />You'll not see here green grass strewn with countless dead dewali bugs, <br />Nor will the world here seem to you a soft and green and gorgeous dead dewali bug, <br />Nor life itself a cold yet gorgeous, dead, green bug. <br />The owl's call will not here bring forth stars like subtle fireflies, <br />Nor will the call of dewdrops bring forth stars like subtle fireflies, <br />Nor will your eyes grow large with recognition as you comprehend creation as thick fog. <br /> <br />[Translated from 'Futpate' (Bengali) by Clinton B. Seely]<br /><br />Jibanananda Das<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-city-sidewalks/
