Then, at the dead of the night
The waters rose and swelled
To the high mud embankment
And spilled over to the village.
The mountains calmly looked on
While a flying chariot-in-flames
Had sheared their edges smooth.
The river swelled with pride
As rain poured into catchments
In the rugged mountain ghats.
The river is now bound within banks
Tamed by a man-made monstrosity.
There is no excitement of spate
It is now so much brown sand
And thin streaks of shallow water.
These days funeral fires rage
On the hot sun-baked river-bed.
On the annual festival days
Tens of thousands of merry- making
Peasants and townsfolk, alike,
Congregate on the brown sand
To celebrate their God's birthday.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem