The Language Of Poush Poem by Dweep Sarkar

dweep Sarkar

In the schoolroom of my village, a notice hangs—
'Lately it has been observed
that the whispering of winter has grown louder on the roof's cornice.

'A left has been declared for you.'

Beside the school stands Geda's thatched hut—
there too, the procession of winter is being stirred.

My old house is made of earth;
on its outer walls, like a sick child,
hang the feet of winter.
As night deepens, winter's body worsens—feverish, trembling—
a stream of cold runs from its nose.

Winter has no parents—
who will wrap it in a quilt?
Once I heard, its parents left it in exile in the forest.
Since then, when Magh arrives in my village,
we cannot step outside for fear of winter.
Our homes, our paths, our roads—
all fall under winter's rule.
We are, in truth, trapped in a cruel snare.

In the bamboo groves, winter lies in ambush.
On the earthen walls, winter lies in ambush.
Inside the blanket, winter lies in ambush.

O God, when—how—
shall we ever be freed from this?