I wouldn't have become..

I wouldn't have died..

If the iron sandals that relapse the monsoon,
had not crushed the streams of spring..

I wouldn't have been born..
If the fingers that squeezed the ocean
that lullabied the snowy mountains,
had not poked through my forefathers forehead..

I wouldn't have seen..
if the clouds that descended the shore of lust,
did not have eyes as the sun..

I wouldn't have wandered..
if the venules in his belly
had not berated the crippled doorsteps..

I wouldn't have flown..
if the mountain cavemen,
delivered by the effulgent streets,
did not bore any nails..

I wouldn't have loved..
if the volcanoes musical strings
entranced by the rising wind on the mountains,
had not invaded my shore as a lullaby
embracing the sea ages..

I wouldn't have become..
if I could not sow myself from the earthly lamp,
on to the alley of the milky way..

The next world war..

We were fastened by the heart of the cactus...

The love which flourished,
unsparingly,
by the thorns of hauteur,...
hiding a world....

The gestation, insulted,
and overthrown,
in a forest riot...

The last gulp given,
to the one victimized
to the sweltering sand granules...
Now, to say the truth,
This heart wrung by the desert,

may be,
will decide our next world war....

Translated by Deepa Chandran Ram 

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..  

Crab..

The melody breaks in between

Poetries are no more laments,
Heartbeats upbraid,
Feet scared of sand-granules,
Cuddles turn dispassionate,
Lately, I am turning to an amnesia.

I am in the clutches of a crab.
as an uninvited famine,
a creature that walks with piercing nail claws,
over my premature dreams…

Before it swallow,
I need to swam over, augment,
to the terminal corner of the world.

When it's scabrous, churlish fingers,
force open the scorched doors in my arid stomach,
I become an unfleshly nakedness
in some silent night tide..

Ballads extended as universe,
a science for you,
a fame within the thick jacket,
a sea as old as genesis..

You, the song,
is the poison goblet,
vended in taverns….
Did the server know that you fed your own hunger?

You are above the scintillae of breath,
Maladies not too big, been accused on you…

This crab is a migrant..
Though, seeds germinate and trees merge with soil
with it's shadow…

Every moment,
the voices dug out by sandals, follow…
Breath cells that exude the phlegm of obsession, vociferate….

Who jailed me?
Who sentenced me?
What was the offense?
When was I betrayed?

Without a charge sheet,
without a prey,
with no one to endorse,
without a legal text for namesake,
who purveyed the executioner?

Though the real convict is the shadow,
that arranged even the gallow
in the unknown prison,
the historical thoughts simmer another question…

How many more crabs
left in this world…
never tired of leeching,
ever breeding and multiplying…
like a landslide,
that embrace one after another…
how many??

Traslated by Deepa Chandran Ram

Song of Vagabond....

On the spacious physical question 

you encounter a vaporous drop..

The drop desires....
to embrace with a guffaw,
to kiss tenderly,
to turn to a tolerant roar,
to tread weaving through her like a silkworm,
to make baby feet dance,
to sometimes drown and kill,
to announce guerrilla warfare through bizarre emotions..

Universe, the wisdom, is monsoon...
torrential rain, is the sob of the soil impending labor pain..
A time bound opera that germinate seeds and uproot huge trees..

As a seed sown in a word,
an instrument can blaze the performer as a lightning...

But this is not that leaves the dark clouds brooding...
Why your body alone stay dry and sapless,
in the middle of all consuming storm and overcast..

Though the doors are groomed with colours,
the latent lamp is truth.
Even in the sweeping raucous whirlwind,
umbrella is an ornament to a dunce..

The festoon in you,

is a diseased organ..

You are a still birth,
if the apparels do not separate,
though amputated..

You are the thong's tongue,
that streamed wailings... 

to the wind, that knitted sand into path...
to the sunlight, that burned dreams to cause light..
to the forest days, by heart felt springs,
harvested darkness, keeping farther from night..
to the wisdom of sea, the itinerant..

A vagabond, oblivion of borders,
continued the song…

"Be naked as the earth's mantle…
Wander as far as the milky way…
Umbrella is ego,
Attire is selfishness,
Footwear is arrogance.."

Translated by Deepa Chndran Ram