I have no cuckoos in my pocket, I have come with
Bombs crammed in my fists. Certain stars are perching
On my fingers descending as dreams. Certain stars turning into
Apsaras drop on my eyelids. I implore on bended knees
O life don't crucify me on happiness.
Knocking at my door stands my country's future. Coolies
Are grazing at midnoons like herds of sheep. They have changed
Equality into a mythological dream; white-ants have eaten into
Words and poets of this country, sages are turned
Into books and buried in libraries.
My India, is fixed like a thumb impression on the
Map of the world, cholera to the sun, coma to the continents,
And tuberculosis to the oceans.
Not air but storms are roaring in my lungs-
I have come with baskets of eyes and legs to sell.
Buy them o countrymen, all of you
Who have no eyes and who have no legs-
Remove all those stone-idols, which have been
Installed on the chests of our people and throw away
Those old gods into throats of those flames
Which have woken up stretching their
Bodies to their full heights.
I who rambled over yards and yards of green fields
As voluptuous breeze have now turned into a
Fierce storm, which rushes
Across forests, just for you.
No one can trap me like a wild beast
And chain me. The world cannot break me, and years
Cannot subdue me. I am sowing my words into the earth
Of this country so that swords may grow everywhere.
I am Agni brandishing flames as whips in my hands;
There are no cuckoos in my pockets-
- Seshendra Sharma
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem