 |
I'M GOING TO MY MOTHER
In the blue balloon's bubble, childhood's spherical sky,
A holiday puja morning in the dance of the magpie;
In winter's floor painting: unhusked rice, cowrie shells,
a painted
Lakshmi plate and holy grasses;
The wind enjoying breakfast in the scent of date molasses.
With his shepherd's songs, Mahajan Das made the finger-cymbals weep;
The widowed bride Uttara painted on the scripture's flyleaf.
The Mahabharata verses flow by like the River Gharghara,
lapping
at our sleep--
Mother alliterates with her vermilion marriage mark, vermilion lips.
So now I've touched my mother, in her arms a child always,
With foolish lips whining and smiling, quite meaningless--
Lying on her breast, listening to the eternal sound of fountains.
I'll be only at your side, Mother, I won't go away again;
Casting off one by one all our vain dreams
From the shore, we'll all be purified, dipping in your heart's stream.
If the sound of your conch shell brings tears to the eyes, let it;
Twilight's lady, your oil lamp moves back and forth at the edges of our
sight!
If I become a bee in a blue lotus in sunset's deepening glade,
I'll say, "I'm going to my mother," to live in her blue cloth's shade.
