Volume 4 Issue 2, June 2020
Special Issue for Indian Poetry

Guna Moran

Rock

A rock can be only made smaller

By beating and hitting

Can never be made larger

 

The rocks are generally homeless

They lay everywhere

 

Run over by vehicles

Rock do not get flattened

Passer by stamp on it repeatedly

Not even the epidermis is damaged

 

Struck by hammer

Rocks turn smaller and tinier

Even after that we term it hard and ruthess

 

Rock for benevolence

Rocks are immortal-never ageing

Because it can turn itself smaller immediately

(benevolent never die)

 

Time-winning aesthetic is impossible sans sculpture

In every era the rock sculpture stands best

Still we find it hard to accept

The eternal rock is the ever spreading glory of the mankind 

 

 

 

Mother

 

Mother

Bless me to turn into dust

Would stay stuck to both your feet every day

 

Mother

Bless me to be your teardrops

Would glitter in your eyes in times of joy and sorrow

 

Mother

Bless me to become air

Would turn lively in your inhalation-exhalation

 

Mother

Bless me to turn into a tree

Would protect you from sun and rain

 

Mother

Bless me to remain a baby throughout my life

Would always remain a adored sweetheart in your lap

 

Mother

Bless me to remain full of laughter always

You’d also smile seeing me laugh

 

Mother

Bless me to be a yellow metal

Would shine as a star on both your ears

 

Mother

Bless me to be your best attendant

Would attend to you every moment

 

Mother

Bless me to become a magician

Would bring you back to life even after death

 

Mother

Bless me for rebirth

Would take birth as your child

Again and again

 

 

 

 

Time Will Write History on You

(dedicated to all those perished in Corona pandemic)

 

Time how cruel you are

My devotion is still far tougher than it

 

Fighting on

I would continue penning

on your bosom

The history of my triumph

 

You would remain a spectator

To my indomitable entity

You would remain a listener

To my fame and glory

You would turn into history

To carry to my progeny my motto

 

You would lose on the brink of winning

I would win on the brink of losing

 

I would stay alive even after dying

You would die even though living

 

You’d rise again

Like Phoenix from the ashes

Our Progeny would fight again with you

Pages in the

history of triumph would keep added on

countless diyas would blow on my altar

 

Time how cruel you are

My devotion is still far tougher than it

 

Fighting on

I would continue penning

on your bosom

The history of my triumph

 

You just watch

 

 

 

 

 

The poems are translated from Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury

About the poet

Guna Moran is an assamese poet and critic. He lives in Assam, India. His poems  have been published in various international magazines, journals, webzines and anthologies.

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Published by The Alternative.