conscience

(translation of Gopalakrishna Adiga’s anthahkarana, 1974)

– 1 –
the conscience is going stump blind;
tattoed jealousy blackens the sprouts; stifled by the
blind hug of the raging fire of the heart and the mind
the breath misses the beat.
bridges burn one by one, transport fails,
where ever one is, is the life of a prison island.

for_conscience

– 2 –
as the tiny little shoots sprout each day
as the roots clenching the soil sucks the sap
as the new born pink fingers caress the air
turn to the yonder blue,
face to face with the sun each day,
gobble up the dirt, waste, manure
giving bountiful clean fresh
leaf, root, flower, fruits and nuts;
the impotent who can’t live thus-

the calling bell rings over and over,
the great heap of logs lie here.

for_conscience

– 3 –
forked branches of life vein rivers is drying up;
the throat of the waterfalls parched : screaming clouds
thins out of the realm of humans;
in the web of electric circles of the serpentine demon
– who steals ’n’ bolts in dark the fertile cows –
infertile buffaloes line the sky;
the holy river’s secret-arbor is stuck in the heavens;
agonising over the lost joy of warm offering to the gods,
the wish wheels of the persistent and the dedicated
are stuck in the sand with bones.
listening to the murmur of the vein river of energy
– that liberates the ghosts of the past –
the drone note turns stale.
hiding the oblivion, in trance we cross the borders in hordes,
put on the masks of foxes dogs wolves and bears; we search
in town’s cabaret holes, nude dark treeholes,
in the blind alley gutters,
in the ant infested crevices of the city underbelly,
in the soul sacrificing rage of burning desire for duplicates
in the internal roars of the intense flare –
the panacea that was here but not anymore.

can’t you hear
the final bubblings in the time’s cup,
the hand axe blows to the mango tree?

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