Sunday Poem: Lover

Translated By Sailen Routray From the Odia Original By Akhila Nayak, Who Died On Nov 7, 2021

By OB Bureau On Nov 21, 2021

Don’t call me a murderer;

for the whole of my life,

I have only loved.

I have learnt the arts of loving

from the hand that irrigates the gourds;

I have also learnt it

from the axe.

I have dragged the plow

with my own shoulders,

transplanted wisps of paddy,

weeded fields infested with leeches;

in fields of green leafy vegetables,

I have melted and poured myself

on to the thirsty tongues of the shoots;

yes, I have loved.

Now my measures are full;

my baskets overflow

with paddy and vegetables.

The trees stand tall

with their hands and legs

spread far and wide.

Now, I’ll light a fire and cook;

as my belly burns with hunger.

All love is meant for quenching hungers;

oh paddy plants,

friends,

brothers,

please do not call me

a murderer.

If needed,

even I

will reach your hungers

as broken grains of rice,

as dew,

as fire,

as breath.

Therefore,

please don’t call me

a murderer.