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P. S. Rege
Sun
The sun
Is my lord,
My patron;
He makes me
Robust, virile,
Like the bold bull
The sire in the herds of the Aryans---
Smouldering.
Fluid,
His effulgent energy
Fulminates
In my veins---
Where blood
Within blood is churned,
The bounds
Of pubescent mind
Burst.
My sun
Becomes the eye,
To stir up and drink
The cold, black globe
In your eye's sky.
And my sun
Gives me hands
Hands
Of pointed lances
Out of the pores of my skin,
Aimed
At the feast
On your breasts
Sparkling again
With fresh
Stars of dew.
Translated by Dilip Chitre
Song
The song that the bird sings in the tree
Has another tree again in the song
That the bird in the tree sings.
In the tree the song that the bird sings
Has again another bird in the song
That in the tree the bird sings.
Translated by the poet
Meaning
And seated,
When you take her by the hand
Never measure the distance.
Time has a strange habit of turning back. . .
Look merely into the distance westwards. . .
Watch how even the cloud's shadows have a colouring,
Ask nothing, say nothing.
There where the grated sand lies below
Let your fingers travel. . .
From here all queries have a meaning.
Translated by Kumud Mehta
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