`
Translated from the poem "Aami" in Bengali by Rabindranath Tagore
`
In the colour of my consciousness the emerald became green
Translated from the poem "Aami" in Bengali by Rabindranath Tagore
`
In the colour of my consciousness the emerald became green
The ruby turned red
I cast my eyes on the sky,
And lights lit up
In the east and the west
Looking at the rose I said "beautiful,"
And beautiful she became.
You will say, This is philosophy,
This is not a poet's message.
I shall say, This is truth,
Hence this is poetry.
This is my ego,
Ego on behalf of all humanity.
And on man's canvas of ego
Lies the Creator's divine art.
The philosopher is meditating within his every breath
No no no --
No emeralds, no rubies, no light, no rose,
No I, no you.
And there, He, the endless, has Himself meditated
At the edge of Man's horizon
That is called "I".
In the depths of that I, light and darkness got united,
Beauty emerged, art awoke
And unnoticed, "no" flowered into "yes" in the spell of illusion
In lines, hues, pleasure, and gloom.
Don't call this philosophy;
My mind has become delighted
In the painting of this universal I
Brush in hand, colours in my palette.
The scholar is saying --
The old moon, his smile is cruel and cunning,
Like the messenger of death he crouches
Near the Earth's ribs.
And one day, will register a sudden heave, on its mountains and oceans;
In the new chronicles of the world
A void shall descend across the whole page,
Gulping down its diurnal records of expense and deposit;
Man's deeds shall get lost in the feigning of immortality,
His history shall be smeared
With soot of the endless night.
And the eye of man's departing day
Shall wring out every colour from the world,
His departing day's mind
Shall squeeze out its juices.
The tremors of power will reverberate from sky to sky,
Lights shall not glow anywhere
In the veena-less court, the musicians fingers shall dance,
But no tune will play.
And on that day, poetry-less, the almighty will remain seated alone,
Under colourless skies
With the mathematics of a personality-less existence.
And then, in the immense skies of the world,
In its farthest corner, among the eternal, innumerable masses
Nowhere shall this voice echo:
"You are beautiful,"
"I love you."
Will the Almighty sit again in meditation
Through the ages.
Will He meditate in the tempestuous dusk --
"Speak up, speak up,"
Will He say, "Say, you are beautiful"
Will He say, "Say, I love you?"
`
I cast my eyes on the sky,
And lights lit up
In the east and the west
Looking at the rose I said "beautiful,"
And beautiful she became.
You will say, This is philosophy,
This is not a poet's message.
I shall say, This is truth,
Hence this is poetry.
This is my ego,
Ego on behalf of all humanity.
And on man's canvas of ego
Lies the Creator's divine art.
The philosopher is meditating within his every breath
No no no --
No emeralds, no rubies, no light, no rose,
No I, no you.
And there, He, the endless, has Himself meditated
At the edge of Man's horizon
That is called "I".
In the depths of that I, light and darkness got united,
Beauty emerged, art awoke
And unnoticed, "no" flowered into "yes" in the spell of illusion
In lines, hues, pleasure, and gloom.
Don't call this philosophy;
My mind has become delighted
In the painting of this universal I
Brush in hand, colours in my palette.
The scholar is saying --
The old moon, his smile is cruel and cunning,
Like the messenger of death he crouches
Near the Earth's ribs.
And one day, will register a sudden heave, on its mountains and oceans;
In the new chronicles of the world
A void shall descend across the whole page,
Gulping down its diurnal records of expense and deposit;
Man's deeds shall get lost in the feigning of immortality,
His history shall be smeared
With soot of the endless night.
And the eye of man's departing day
Shall wring out every colour from the world,
His departing day's mind
Shall squeeze out its juices.
The tremors of power will reverberate from sky to sky,
Lights shall not glow anywhere
In the veena-less court, the musicians fingers shall dance,
But no tune will play.
And on that day, poetry-less, the almighty will remain seated alone,
Under colourless skies
With the mathematics of a personality-less existence.
And then, in the immense skies of the world,
In its farthest corner, among the eternal, innumerable masses
Nowhere shall this voice echo:
"You are beautiful,"
"I love you."
Will the Almighty sit again in meditation
Through the ages.
Will He meditate in the tempestuous dusk --
"Speak up, speak up,"
Will He say, "Say, you are beautiful"
Will He say, "Say, I love you?"
`
Minneapolis, MN,
May, 2009
