A perpetual delight to shed tears leaving the Nadu
reading about a tree as a shrine, articulate Mandir,
the floor too abundant to be clean, all is grass for Nandi
and I'm flying away filled with the measured pace of Chiranbadam,
the revolt against deprivation and the color of a pagri,
out of scope in Mylapore, from which state do you come from?
My five elements, Kodumudi, and see the quick Nataraja
playing Shakti in the sands of Triplicane, so unsafe, so impermanent,
so far away from the smells of turmeric, from the Kural, from the crowds
that surrounded the fishing boat going east
across the ocean, a temple for the water and the salt
where we remove our footwear.
And a perpetual delight to see the skins smiling
around the landscape getting arab and then getting gora
Away, and inside my crops, I carry no weight
but stories that never conclude, like countries to be invented,
like all things that are not left out of Arunachala
because there is nothing like poverty but poverty,
it makes salvation in heaven impossible - for there too
there should be a thali for every immortal that perishes,
full of arousa (the Tamil origin of all rice) and full of sambar
to eat and to share, finger by finger, while we find the rhymes.
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento