~Pramod Snehi~
Translated by Yuyutsu Sharma
From the winter trees
leaves fall to the ground.
When you walk over
these dry leaves a music escalates…
Sa-re-ga-ma
Pa-da-ni-sa
Watch these dry leaves,
these are corpses of a symphony…
From the leaves
of the burning rose you gave me
shall one day rise
this clear dawn of my dreams.
Lighting a candle
on some restaurant’s table
we are reading
ageless tales of the moon and the bird.
Drenched
in the ecstasy of our warm bodies
we spread out
and dry our dreams
full of vacant
riverbeds of our eyes.
Just today I heard
in the night of the festival of love
a moon-bird
committed suicide.
Once again the blood
wrote the story of the moon
and the lovers celebrated
a night of success
and shot into
the crimson skies
white-winged pigeons
in the name of the bleeding moon.
