For many days in the darkness of wordless nights
I have kept myself covered,
hiding in shame beside mute, abject poverty.
In the cremation ground's wind
howling like a ghost
naked, shelterless, without resolve or consciousness
for many births wandering in circles—Rama of Ayodhya,
a life offered to the web of lies.
Here I am dust motes flying in the desolate wind,
scorched in the fierce, unforgiving heat, wounded and torn;
I have fallen face-first,
lying here for how long, how many years—
who knows how many children were born in all this time!
Looking at my secret wounds I have seen
the deafness of the womb, in the empty courtyard
the serpents have built their nests
I have counted the days of death many times
yet death has not come in its terrible form!
Only the torment of staying alive,
humiliation standing still at the door.
Spring has come again and again, returning…
around the central minaret
crowds of wealthy merchants,
before and behind them, attendant locusts in rows…
Theirs is the priority—this is the custom!
I who am the dry, torn bread of an abandoned plate
or surviving on scraps and bones.
My questions have smothered and died many times
for who knows how long, how many years!
In this vast desert sand
only arranged in layers upon layers…
No place, no place—nowhere here is there any place.
The saplings of desire (like ash-pierced fire)
never at any time
bloomed into themselves, instead
the debt of despair was born again and again…
Only no place, no place—nowhere here is there any place.