An Evening In Translation Poem by Shyamashri Ray Karmakar

An evening in translation
Shyamashri Ray Karmakar

It's seven in the evening.
The crescent September moon moves like
an arthritis patient,
falls upon the river, growls in pain.

I love this night.
She is like a middle aged lady's purse.
Fat bellied, unorganised in life.

A mysterious sound comes from nowhere,
Lightly touches her grim forehead,
Stands still, for a while, and then goes away...
Perhaps to some distant relative's house.

I'm writing to you....
I'm writing to you...
Writing....

What do I intend to say?


Like a leaf on air
The sound comes again and whispers -
'We are here with a purpose my dear girl! '
'We are here with a purpose', echoes the wind.