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It is natural that one would ask: What am I doing? And why? Why on earth am I writing? But, listen, you conceit personified! It's better not to raise a question. When I've returned to my lair Steeped in filth that the day churned out, I've burnt my fingers, for lack of incense, to write; Poking at the lacerated wounds, Allowed blood to trickle out; Used the last droplet of anguish to write. The way on wintry mornings Raaban Maajhi's wife Used to collect dry leaves On her broken back, I have gleaned the extract of Earth, dreams of dawn, Whatever is transparent, clean, Remains of what was achieved and what wasn't, And arranged them like flowers on a string. I have penned them down. None of you opened your eyes then! Your born-perforated brains Have gnawed at my dreams, blowing out the remnants bit by bit. Even today, pieces of my sanity Stuck to your canines Make a shameless spectacle. Now, you ask questions? I repeat, raising a question is Not desirable. I am going to write! Why?! Though it’s unnecessary to inform I proclaim - I'd write, speak, sing. And You! You'd listen. I'd continue to kick your eunuch brains And compromising backs. You'd listen. I'd write crap, I'd write piss. Write out every bolus of phlegm From my wasted lungs. And you'd listen with the serpentine shame of a transvestite. Why, you won't? Why would you listen? For what? That question, too, is irrelevant. I repeat, not desirable. (This translation
was contributed by Kausik Datta
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