Jayanta Mahapatra as a poet of silence,
The morning sea of silence
Breaking into ripples of music,
Th lotus blooming
And it is dawning,
The mist and the gloom dispelling,
The fog clearing,
The world awaking from slumber,
Arising and awaking from,
The sparrows chirping
From the thatches
Of the village mud houses.
The silence of the night-time,
The midday,
The noontime hot and sizzling,
The hot winds blowing
And playing with swirling dry leaves
At some solitary nook and corner
Of the villagerly landscape
Seconded by loneliness
Felt in life and the world,
A quietude strange.
The sun-baked villages and the sun-burnt earth,
The sizzling heat of the summer
Perspiring and in sweat
And the sun shining hot,
As a hot ball of gas and fire
And the hot winds blowing,
Taking a toll upon,
Giving no respite from,
Baffling it all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem