WINGED-ANTS

by Manua Das
translated from the Oriya by Rabindra K. Swain

 

 

            For days together
our wings keep on sprouting
under the ground, in the dark;
absolutely light and clear
raindrops.
One can see through the wings
our bodies,
dirty and clayish.

            For days together
there is no rain.
In scalding heat, in hunger
we keep clinging to the earth.
Suddenly our wings begin to sprout.
Is there a rain, deepening
in some corner of the sky?

In our wings the whispering of rain.
In our cold bones
the hide-and-seek of the wind.
Intolerable is some others’ hunger.
Only excitement, our excitement
to break ourselves free.
As if all of us are prepared.

We’ll fly up, up and up, bursting through earth,
crossing the branches of trees,
into the sky, into more sky,
beating our wings, all alone,
thousands of us, abandoning our own flocks, till we are lost
in the bright light of rain.
Like rain
we are all forgetful of ourselves.
Again we are back on the earth,
beaten by the rain.

            For days together
there is no rain.
Scattered on the earth
thousands and thousands
of wings,
silent, motionless.

Like a grain of rain,
as it were,
we are all, each of us.

Those of us
who survive
enter the earth again
bodily,
feed on the earth,
fight with the heat
and lie waiting for the rain.

            For days together
there is no rain.

 

 

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