A baby asleep in the earth's mantle ....

A baby asleep in the earth's mantle,

unable to be born,
It bickers with machine hands
and is entwined by tree's venules.

I want to be a termite mound,

a quilt that snakes, centipedes, crickets and black ants crawl on,
The termite feet should creep

and grow as the navel string of the unborn child.

Lizard, an indicator,

the broken tail, is history,
the helpless poem of shrivelled verses.

When the secret gatherings of bygone trees

downpour as nights,
A banyan tree from Sravasti,

break through the ribs to emerge.

When the leaves with wings drenched in sweat,

are lost in fond kisses through ripped sand walls,
the baby start to depart.

When the sight of images, dead,
turn naked,
When consciousness creep closer,
stripping off the word husk,
An unnamed finger, lastly,

would,
inscribe on the scorching sand.

It might be through a root

that the sea transform to salt,
till the tears that boiled my inside
mature to a truth,
till the dying ember is casted to a being.

Translated by Deepa Chandran Ram..