Translating Poetry

Poetry translation is
a transmigration.
As a fish dives through water
the translator moves through
minds. On the bank of
each word, in the thick sand,
he kneels, studying
the colour of each shell,
blowing each conch.

Poetry translation is
the embarrassing head
transposal of the Vikramaditya
Tales. The translator
supports another poet’s
head on his trunk. Each line
is a lane worn out with
war, misery and boredom.
A bylane of music along which
parade immortal men, gods
and trees. An abyss opens
where a line ends. The souls
of the dead quench their thirst
in that pool of silence.

O, those who come this way,
please take off your shoes
and leave your garments here.
You must sneak through naked
like the wind in the valley.

One day I dreamt of myself
translating my poetry
into my own language.

All of us translate each poem
into our own private language
and then we quarrel over the meanings.

It seems to me that the Babel
will never be complete.

(Translated by E.V. Ramakrishnan)