Bat on a village tree

Wombs of words you split open
And give me names very many:
Bat,Flying Fox, Nocturnal Beast and…and…

But, dear ones,
Words these days are an archaic urn,
Dead worlds buried inside.
Rising in new colours,
They find their place in market’s glare
Blended well with other wares.

I am not a bird nor an animal could I be,
History I never was, nor a story could I be.
I am all awake when you must be lying lost in dreams;
Sleep I do when day is out and out.

Why I lie my head down,
Why this dark mantle to keep me cloaked,
You ask and answer yourself:
Bloodthirsty were my ancestors,
They wander with their thirst
Which, like the dark aura mythic ghouls have round their heads,
Never ends.

You want me to leave this banyan bough
Where sparrows sit and play the chords of the morning sun?
Allow me to live here, on this tree.

I will come in no one’s way.
I will take my time from what is neither day nor night.
I will know what is what from the waves of my wings.
By the ears I will see and by the body-moves I can speak.

Is it that the real world is upside down?
When the moon begins to shine
And plantain sepals slowly unfold,
I’ll spread my wings and fly awhile
In a motely feel of joy which I keep in my thoughts
Under folds of snow.

Maybe I have writhed in pain
Entrapped in the power running unseen
Through the wires laid across the air.
But, lo, never, never have I had a taste of blood.

With this life of mine

Which all birds and animals have banished from theirs
I enact, as if on a stage, death by hanging all my life.

You say you don’t know me?
Me, the umbrella that senile god
Forgot to take from the bended branch of evolution?
I know you know.
Only you refuse to know.

Tran: from the Malayalam by K.V. Subramanian

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