The Sparrow

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.

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