The door of heart
Never does it open
And when opens it,
Broadens it the range,
The dimension,
The horizon and the spectrum
Of the mind.
Jayanta as a poet
Sits by the door
Dreaming,
Taking visionary glides,
Dreaming and lapsing into,
Dreaming and gliding.
Just like a woodpecker
He keeps pecking,
Holing in,
Giving the shrill call,
The grey and grizzled woodpecker,
Yellowish, brownish and blackly-striped.
A carpenter of images,
Handworks, wood-works,
He thinks of the doors
And slipping out,
The doors to be carved out
Of the rock-built temples,
The doors of dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem