Poetry in translation
(Translated by Utpal Chattopadhyay)
I have never found a rose
that can colour me red.
To whom, then, should I surrender? When? Where?
Only before dusk, everything turns crimson,
like the brave women who were ravaged.
Even childhood lacked colour. But I know,
I have seen
how the glint of the knife dripping with blood.
Should I firmly hold that knife by its handle, which looks
green and fresh, but is not quite the delicately arranged betel leaf
kept on a sliver plate?
Flesh, flesh and more flesh ...
In that flesh, I must,
like a stone faced surgeon wielding a cruel knife,
search for those coloured days of life.