Though not drunk/And neither suffering from a stroke/My feet wobble. Poetry by Nabarun Bhattacharya.
Though not drunk And neither suffering from a stroke, My feet wobble. A tremor rises through my heart, my brain The mobile towers screech and scream The sparrows lie dead The sky, they had run out Their skies stolen by bandits He lies there, forlorn, The fallen sparrow What are those patterns on its feathers – camouflage? Battered on his eyes and lips, has he turned blue? Lies around him dust and hay, AK-47 This is how ended this transaction Can you please stop making sound, you distinguished vultures Would you stop preaching your hoarse sermons Let us, for sometime, without the help of the hearing aid Listen to the songs of the sparrows
Translated by Tathagata Bhattacharya, a New Delhi-based journalist and co-editor of Bhasha Review
Artwork by Arka Das.