I am amused:
Nobody has even the haziest memory
Of my father's Grandpa.
And yet his sword is still preserved.
Blunt.
And even now on its hilt
A delicate pattern of leaves and flowers
Is faintly visible.
There are stains
Hidden behind the tattered loyalty
Of the scabbard's silk and leather.
Are they marks of rust or blood?
Who Knows?
Anybody would be embarrassed of the rusty sword.
And who would not be ashamed of a bloody one!
I am abashed by the sword itself
That too still retained!
Those who will address my son as Grandpa
Perhaps will discover
A pen belonging to his father preserved still
When forest or ponds or squirrels or migratory birds
Must have become dried stains
On the rusted surface of barren paper.
Nobody would have even dimmest memory
That
Poems were written with that pen.
Nobody would ask what poetry is.
And yet, picking that pen
Someone would draw a petal of Peony flower
And write P for the first time
And proclaim perhaps
I am ashamed of my ancestors
?
Translated by The Poet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An interesting narrative piece of poetry, well conceived and nicely brought forth with insight. A beautiful creation Dileep. Thanks for sharing and do remain enriched.