Rajaram Bramarajan.

The door stands latched intact

Yet the unseen street lamp’s lacteal glow

Infiltrates through the slit.

A discarded newspaper bag

disturbs the dumb tar road.

Raising my eyes towards the sky

I tell myself:

You are unconcerned with the distance

dividing galaxies.

When the chimes of the church bell

Roll in the lap of darkness

Your eyes of surprise

Focused for Milan’s frescoes

Remain shutters closed.

An insect

strange and anonymous

tickling the ears

with shrill needles of sound

tells me:

when the neutron bomb wipes the homosapiens

it is impossible for

a protozoa to offer

regenesis to man.

The mane of the lion

Marx’s reckonings of daily bread-

all have met their destiny here

like scattered sperms on the mud.

Your ignorance will have

more catalogues tagged to it.

In whatever manner time is measured

beyond the skeletons of concrete hills

and across the neon signs

our speech shall remain

away from the invading computers-

an articulation of flesh and blood.


Translated by the poet.