In my boyish adolescence,
Ever longed to know,
Where the rivers flow from,
Where all water goes.
Here comes summer,
Level recedes to bottom,
Natives dig sand wells,
To sustain vegetation.
Crops sprout on river bed,
As flow dips down,
Swathe of green overtakes,
Tilling and seeding done.
Shravana brings downpour,
Pushing water Columns,
Conjoining shy firmament,
With the arrogant mundane.
Volumes gush down-stream,
To reach widest expanse,
With swirling musicality,
As the river returns.
The bathing ghat's log-steps,
From the community ponds,
Being unlocked of inertia,
Floating around the bunds.
The edges over flow,
And paddies flown-over,
The palm-leafed hood hats,
Bare respite to cover.
Spring comes as harbinger,
Rivers re-shape their course,
Lives spring back to rejoice
Save time for remorse.
All known naughty water,
Have long flown down,
Course remained as it was,
Though banks sliced down.
River continue to be revered,
For its great munificence,
Even if in furious spate,
or in droughty confluence.
But still I am recrudescent,
As to why the rivers flow,
Not a drop in their beds now,
Yet ever-strive to flow.
***
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem