Canto - V.....
Yes, this is the land where millions of stones live,
forlorn by their families of hills.
this is the land crushed under the
iron heels of grueling sun.
This is the land which spits flames
of mirages from her bloody wounds-
this is the dancing hall of the reckless flames of the sun's furry.
this is the land which is deserted by all
living beings, leaving it to the enormous void,
spreading from one end to the other end of the sky.
Here, nothing exists except a bird
and a tree.
The tree is perhaps the one who lost his way
from those families of trees, which migrated
to distant lands, in search of water.
Like tear of the tree, is the lonely tiller
with his plough; alone wrests the life-substance
from out of this niggardly rocky soil.
O! The arrogant sun rubs its muscles on
the cheeks of the tree. From what countries
do they come, these exiled whirlwinds, to take refuge here?
who said they are rocks? they are consciences who
gagged their mouths with their hands.
Who said they are flames of the sun?
They are armies of fire, invading on helpless rocks.
To history with me, these rocks also gave their
blood. Today they are mere rocks, but the
the sculptures of bygone empires were their dreams.
O toiler, over there with a plough in your
hand, you are not alone. Your journey cannot halt
merely as a drop of tear. There is another brother
who joins his footsteps with every one that you
tread on these stones, in other part of the earth remember-
In Iraq, in Japan, in Mexico, in the Far East or Mongolia-
Over these rough lands, flowing with tears of rocks,
A man will arise one day over whose body
iron muscles move as whirlwinds.
See, the ranges of mountains, how silently
they move in the distances, draping their shoulders
with 'Uparnas'(upper cloth on shoulders)of sun; they are prophets,
delivering commentaries on the depths of skies in
exalted tones, which you cannot comprehend!
* * * *
I am now alone and gathering silences in voidity,
I am carrying the distance upon my shoulders dragging my feet
along the road, my hands dropped by the weight of inaction.
Veil my eyes, my ears!
In our land where flowers bloom, drops of blood are falling.
In our land where birds sing, the air is laden with sighs.
the days are tied to the trees and hanged.
the rising sun is removed and flung away
savagely into the rocks of the west;
each dawn is vomiting blood and my people
sit with folded hands! .....
Why don't the mountains scream in rage,
why don't the skulls of nights break into pieces,
why don't these millions of stars crush themselves
to death and fall?
In my own country my voice has become
fugitive; the voice I raise here shoot into sky
and stuck up somewhere, never returns,
people why don't you listen to me?
Oh, they don't know to wake up?
They don't know how to open their mouth and yawn,
They don't know how to stretch their swarthy hands
and thunder their legs on the earth...
They are our own people, let us
give them our strength...
Let us give the entire content of our
existence to them.
who make our country, who make our history,
who fulfill our dreams and aspirations-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem