Zombies-version 2

Zombies (version 2)

There comes a time when dreams have turned to dust,
And humans lose their passion and their lust.
Then what they do, they do as zombies might—
Or robots—not from choice, but since they must.

Bereft of purpose, shorn of meaning’s might,
And so of all the vigor these had lent,
And lacking vision, robbed of thought and sight,
As husks, they know not where their kernels went.

******

What acts or words or thoughts can break that spell—
Release them then from that robotic hell?
They ask this question, with the ardor left
That wills can muster, from within that well.

They ask the question as a prayer, plea—
To find the clarity and wisdom then
That gives them sanity and sight to see
The path that takes them back to being men.

******

But then, they might at times remember this—
The precious thing that zombies surely miss—
Those moments, scant, retrieved from memory—
Those instants past of pure, essential bliss.

What presence then, except that essence fine—
As walls dissolved and pain had ceased to be—
That taste and scent, as if of fragrant wine,
That even zombies know, who once were free.

2018 May 22nd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Zombies-version 1

Zombies (version 1)

There comes a time when treasures turn to dust,
And we have lost our passion and our lust.
Then what we do, we do as zombies might—
Or robots—not from choice, but since we must.

What acts or words or thoughts can break that spell—
Release us then from that robotic hell?
We ask that question, with the ardor left
That will can muster, in our souls bereft—

Bereft of purpose, shorn of meaning’s might,
And so of all the vigor these had lent,
And lacking vision, robbed of thought and sight,
As husks that know not where their kernels went.

We ask the question, as a prayer, plea—
A pleading for permission, yes, to see—
To find the insight, and the foresight then—
The wisdom, as a presence, still to be.

But then, we might at times remember this—
Those moments scant, retrieved from memory—
Those instants past of pure, essential bliss,
When walls dissolved, and pain had ceased to be.

What presence then, except that sense divine—
That scent of joy, as if of fragrant wine—
That essence that is still within us, though
It’s hidden, where we zombies do not know.

2018 May 22nd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Likhbe Xexe Je-লিখবে শেষে যে-The Writer at the End

There are five items in this post: 
  

• 1. the Bengali original (লিখবে শেষে যে), sparked by a Facebook post by Sanju Saha;
• 2. a Roman transcription (Likhabē Śēṣē Yē), via Google's site, http://translate.google.com, that follows the standard spelling in the Bengali script;
• 3. another Roman transcription (Likhbe Xexe Je), of the author's devising, that follows the standard Bengali pronunciation, rather than the standard spelling; 
• 4. a voice recording of the Bengali;
• 5. a translation into English (The Writer at the End).

--------------------------------------------

Item 1: Bengali Original
   
লিখবে শেষে যে

অনেক কিছু লেখার ছিল,
লেখা হল না৷
ভাবছি, কাকে বলব এখন,
বলার ছিল যা৷

ছিলে যখন পাশে, তখন
ব্যস্ত ছিলাম, তাই
লিখছি এখন, দিনের শেষে,
মনের কথা, ভাই৷ 

আসছে না, সেই বুকের ব্যাথা,
কাগজ কলমে৷
বসে আছি, তার-ই আশায়,
লিখবে শেষে যে৷
  
শুক্রবার, ৩রা মার্চ, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557
--------------------------------------------

Item 2:  The following is a Roman transcription made via http://translate.google.com.

Likhabē Śēṣē Yē

Anēka kichu lēkhāra chila,
lēkhā hala nā.
Bhābachi, kākē balaba ēkhana,
balāra chila yā.

Chilē yakhana pāśē, takhana
byasta chilāma, tā'i
likhachi ēkhana, dinēra śēṣē,
manēra kathā, bhā'i.

Āsachē nā, sē'i bukēra byāthā,
kāgaja kalamē.
Basē āchi, tāra-i āśāẏa,
likhabē śēṣē yē.

Śukrabāra, 3rā Mārca, 2017 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557
--------------------------------------------  
  
Item 3: The following is a Romanization made using the transcription scheme outlined briefly at http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html and even more briefly (but perhaps too compactly) below.
  

• x = sh, c = ch.
• t and d are dental (with the tongue tip touching the backs of the upper front teeth)—as in Latin languages.
• t' and d' are alveolar (tongue tip to upper gum ridge)—as in English.
• h is used as an aspirant (an addition of a puff of breath to a consonant, as at times done in English).
• All other consonants are roughly as in English, but without aspiration.
• All vowels, including those at the ends of words, are pronounced.
• All unmarked* vowels are as in Italian and Spanish, but mostly with intermediate length (duration).
• ~ nasalizes the preceding vowel, faintly.
• Stress (loudness) and elongation (extended duration) are usually placed on the first syllable of a word, but are slight, and there is no slurring of vowels in unstressed syllables.

* Marked Vowels

• o` is like the first vowel in British orange, being a rounded, open, back vowel, of intermediate length.
• e` is as in hat, being an unrounded, open, front vowel, of intermediate length.

Again, both of these vowels have intermediate length (duration). 
 
Likhbe Xexe Je

O`nek kichu lekhar chilo,
lekha holo na.
Bhabchi, kake bolbo e`khon,
bo`lar chilo ja.

Chile jo`khon paxe, to`khon
be`sto chilam, tai
likhchi e`khon, diner xexe,
moner ko`tha, bhai.

Axche na, xei buker be`tha,
kagoj ko`lome.
Boxe achi, tar-i axae,
likhbe xexe je.

Xukrobar, 3e Marc, 2017 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557
-------------------------------------------- 

Item 4:  This is a voice recording of the Bengali. This might not work on cellphones. Please click on the rounded-triangle play button on the right of the composite icon below. In some browsers, you might have to click twice. Adjust the volume on your device as needed.


Record music and voice >>
--------------------------------------------

Item 5: The following is a translation into English.
  
The Writer at the End

There was much to write
that wasn’t written.
I think—to whom will I tell
the things I had to say?

When you were by me, I
was busy, and so
I now attempt to write
my thoughts, dear friend.

What is in my heart
does not come to my pen.
I am waiting for the one
who will write at the end.

Friday, 3rd March, 2017 AD
Brooklyn, New York

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557 
  

The Gods

The Gods

The gods exist, as humans do.
They love and hate, like me and you.
So why then worship gods, when they,
the things that bind us, still obey?

Perfection, if your name is God,
with all of virtue, truth distilled,
I still would look at you askance,
as vice and falsehood unfulfilled.

Where yang is rising, yin descends,
but only till they circle 'round.
So light and dark, and virtue, vice,
are each, within the other, found.

The deities of the water, wind,
like you and I, have also sinned.
And yet, in awe or grief, we cry
to these, who're born like us to die.

2016 November 7th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Mitzvah

Mitzvah
 
Soft and gentle was that music,
Soothing to the souls who’d sinned,
Healing to the ones they’d wounded,
Like a whisper in the wind.

Faint and fading though it sounded,
Seeming close, yet seeming far,
Yet it still was soothing, healing,
After all the sounds of war.

Whence this music of the angels,
Floating in the summer breeze?
Who were they, who made that music,
Setting tortured souls to ease?

So we wondered, while that music
Lasted, captured by its art.
How and why this blessing, fashioned
So to touch and heal the heart?

Just as it had risen, softly,
So it ebbed and then was gone.
Years have passed, and yet within
Our minds it still is playing on.

Some have said it was a mitzvah,
A message from a source divine.
All I know was that I heard it,
And it now is yours and mine.

If a human hand had made it,
Guided by a gentler god,
Then I thank the maker for it,
And I’m grateful for that god.

2016 April 20th, Tue. 
Brooklyn, New York 
  

Yemenite Jew blowing the shofar (ram's horn), circa 1935
U.S. Library of Congress archives

Boy playing flute, Peru
Werner Bischof

 

Yemenite Jews studying the Torah in Sana'a, Yemen
https://uk.pinterest.com/explore/yemenite-jews/

Sitting Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

 

Tranquil Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

The Dancer (and the Reed)

The Dancer
(and the Reed)

On the sands, beside the ocean,
I did the dancer meet,
As the waves were drum-rolls sounding
And the wind was fluting sweet.

She danced of the creation,
Of the genesis, of sex –
She was god and man and woman,
She was nature – nothing less.

From the sweat, her face was shining,
Though the breeze was blowing cool,
With the surf behind her roaring
As she danced before this fool.

I was spellbound by her dancing –
That was sensual and divine.
I stood and watched her postures
And the play of gestures fine.

With her feet, she stomped a rhythm –
Primordial, heartbeat, lust –
And her torso swayed to lilting –
That of sky that calls to dust.

She was thunder, she was lightning,
She was wind, torrential rain,
She was each of all the seasons,
She was pleasure, she was pain.

She was joy and she was sorrow,
She was laughter, she was grief.
And my heart, by her, was stolen –
By this dancer, like a thief.

So the gods may ask allegiance
That the strongest can’t resist;
So the musk may rouse the senses
And on mating, then insist…

But the dance then rose in tempo,
As coitus too may do,
And it reached, in time, a climax,
With my heart convulsing too.

And then, as she was flowing
And was swaying, I was freed
And I floated, by that seaside,
Like a wave-tossed broken reed.

******

I think I fell unconscious
And I lay there for a time.
When I woke, there was no dancer –
So I've danced her back in rhyme.

But if you find her dancing –
By an ocean, on a beach,
Beware – for those who watch her
Will be captured by her, each…

Let my rhymes be then sufficient
For the ones, who’re weak of heart –
Though they be a pale reflection
Of the wonder of her art.

Her face was flushed – her beauty
Was like the morning mist,
Her lips were slightly parted –
Her face, by moisture kissed.

Her hips were circling slowly,
Her arms were waving high,
Her hands were weaving stories,
And her eyes were darting sly.

Was she air or was she ether?
For she leaped in wondrous arcs
And she landed like a feather,
Yet the sand flew out like sparks.

She was sparkling, like a fountain,
She was flowing, like a stream.
Was she a woman – or a goddess?
Was she real – or a dream?

I do not know the answers,
But that dancer, I can see –
For I’d seen, myself, her dancing,
By the breakers, by the sea…
 
There are things we can imagine.
There are others, that we can't –
That are spoken of in whispers –
Or in hymns the faithful chant.

I have witnessed such a wonder –
As I've seen, myself, my hand.
But whence and how and wherefore,
I do not understand.

2015 January 18th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
Please see:  The Dances of the Golden Hall, by Ashoke Chatterjee (text) and Sunil Janah (photographs), ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations), New Delhi, 1979. 

This book, designed by Zehra Tyabji and printed at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, has a short Introduction by Indira Gandhi and a Foreword by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin.
   

আবার তোমারে পাওয়া – abar tomare paoa

  
আবার তোমারে পাওয়া 


আঁধারে আলোয় দেখেছি তোমারে,
নিমেষে হয়েছ হাওয়া।
ডেকেছি, খুঁজেছি, কত যে চেয়েছি
আবার তোমারে পাওয়া।
  
কোথায় রয়েছ, জানি না, জানি না...
আকাশে উঠিয়ে হাত,
কেঁদেছি দিবসে, এসেছে জবাবে
লক্ষ তারার রাত...
 
স্বপ্নে ভেবেছি, দেখেছি তোমারে,
বুঝেছি, ভোরে উঠে, ভুল...
বাইরে বেরিয়ে, শীতল সকালে,
দেখেছি ফুটেছে ফুল...
 
নদির তীরে হেঁটেছি বিকেলে,
জলেতে দেখেছি তোমায়।
ডেকেছি, কেঁদেছি – মিলন তুমি
দেবে কি এবারে আমায়?

পাত্তা দেওনি কখনো, যদিও
হয়েছি ডেকে ডেকে হয়রান...
তাই ত ভেতরে,ধাপে ধাপে,
মরেছে আশা, নিবেছে প্রান।

আঁধারে আলোয় দেখেছি তোমারে,
নিমেষে হয়েছ হাওয়া।
ডেকেছি, খুঁজেছি, কত যে চেয়েছি
আবার তোমারে পাওয়া।
  
সোমবার, ১৫-ই ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৪ খৃ
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ য়র্ক
   
-------------------------------------------------
Abar Tomare Paoa

A~dhare aloe dekhechi tomare,
nimexe hoecho haoa.
D’ekechi, khu~jechi, ko`to je ce-echi
abar tomare paoa.

Kothae roecho, jani na, jani na…
Akaxe ut’hie hat,
k~edichi dibo`xe, exeche jo`babe
lokkho-tararo rat…

Xo`pne bhebechi, dehkechi tomare.
bhujhechi, bhore ut’he, bhul…
Baire berie, xito`lo xo`kale,
dekhechi phut’eche phul…

Nodir tire he~t’echi bikele,
jo`lete dekhechi tomae.
D’ekechi, ke~dechi, “Milo`n tumi
debe ki ebare amae?”

Patta de`o ni, ko`khono, jodio
hoechi d’eke d’eke ho`eran…
Tai to bhetore, dhape dhape,
moreche axa, nibeche pran…

A~dhare aloe dekhechi tomare,
nimexe hoecho haoa.
D’ekechi, khu~jechi, ko`to je ce-echi
abar tomare paoa.

Xombar, 15-oi D’isembo`r, 2014 khri.
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
  

The Gentle God

The Gentle God
 
The tongues and faiths of men and women are
As myriad as our faces.  Each of us
Is born, by chance, in one or other tribe.
Yet over this, we build our heaps of fuss.

We’re riven by religions, languages,
By “races”, classes, occupations, more...
We raise our fences, barb our borders and
We’re never done with all our ruthless gore...

Our families are sundered by our strife –
Our clans dispersed – our tribes, by tempests, blown…
We meet the “strangers”, know that they are us –
And yet pretend that they are not our own...

The nation-states and empires work their ruin –
Our inner demons turned to genies great,
As you and I express our discontent
By heaping blame on those we love to hate.

We humans still have satisfactions small –
But these appear no longer good enough.
Ambition, ego, greed and worse demand
Yet more acclaim, achievement, power, stuff…

There’s Nature, wondrous, bountiful and yet
At times enraged or sullen in her moods...
Then all of our entreaties are as naught,
As death and sorrow mark those interludes...

But then, we’ve men – and women, not outdone.
They've grown in hubris and in violence,
With empires, corporations, warrior-states –
Their mobs and armies and their borders tense...

Our minds have opened up the universe,
Wrung secrets from the stars and atoms, yet
Our wisdom lags, as men create such things
As even devils wish they could forget.

From fear we murder, and from greed we die –
And vice versa, as the wheel revolves.
And yet we claim that this is not a lie –
That humankind, towards betterment, evolves...

Among the gods to whom we turn to pray,
Is there, perhaps, a god of gentleness –
Or goddess of the same – of tranquil ways –
Who’ll answer yet our pleas to end this mess?

Is there a god or goddess, who
Can whisper in a tyrant’s ear, can soothe
The raging mob, can softly touch a heart
Or make a furrowed brow, with a gesture, smooth?

Alas, the gods are our projections too.
Divinities are limited in scope.
Their knowledge, power hardly cover all.
A lesson there – perhaps a bit of hope…

The gentleness within us waits to speak –
But when it does, it speaks with silences.
For when we feel it fill and heal our hearts,
We’ve no more need for all our sentences…

The gentle god is there in all of us.
The gentle goddess – she is smiling too,
As tears are flowing down her cheeks, for she
Is Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jew…

2014 August 3rd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

To Someone

  
To Someone
  
Although it’s been so many, many years,
I still cannot forget your eyes, my friend –
The times I looked upon those eyes and sensed
A link to what has neither start nor end…
  
Two eyes that meet, two hands that briefly touch –
That current that then suddenly connects –
How can we explain it?  Leave it be –
Acknowledging it happened, till the next…
  
But oftentimes, it’s only one that feels
That current or that heart that skips a beat –
And then, it’s best to bow and quietly leave,
So heart and mind, disturbed, can take their rest…
 
But now so many years have passed, and yet
I wonder, were those merely idle dreams –
Or were they real?  So I write this verse,
While knowing little is, as what it seems…
 
2014 July 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
     

Evening Mass

                
Evening Mass
         
As I was walking by St. Finbar's Church,
I heard the organ and the evening mass.
I heard the converts in the basement sing.
I heard their voices as they rose and fell.
It seemed, in this our world, that all was well.

But, recalling then the history
Of those who sang of faith and mystery,
Remembering then, how their ancestors died
And for a bit of peace and justice cried,
I knew this world of ours was far from well,
More distant, yes, from heaven than from hell.

I heard the Guatemalans in the basement sing,
I saw some coming down the street to join –
In Sunday best, a little family...
I saw them cross themselves before the church
And quietly enter, by the side, to sing.

And I remembered then, how they had fled
Their country, ravaged by the endless wars,
How cash and arms had streamed from here to south,
How many then were hunted, massacred...
How those surviving lived from hand to mouth,
How many homeless ones had grieved alone...

And so they traveled north, where money went,
And some had papers, others never did.
They took up humble trades and quietly hid,
For they were quiet people, most of them –
Except on Sundays, when they donned these clothes
And gathered in the basements, there to sing.

A simple story, told by a simpleton.
The truth, you can be sure, is more complex.
But you will have to sit and talk with them
In Spanish or in Quiché.  Then you'll glimpse
The many threads that weave that history
Of silent ones – of faith – and mystery.

For these are “Indians” – not my Asian kind,
But folk of  these, the western continents.
And those, who've traveled far, from Central Am,
Are quiet folk, of stature small and slight.
But when you talk with them, you'll see, at times,
Some traces left – of a soft and ancient light...

And all the weight of ages – Maya, Spain,
The persecutions and the silent pain,
This past, you'll feel – or hear in cadences,
The muted tones of those who've suffered much,
But haven't walled themselves; they're forest folk,
And used to sounds of death – and silences.

So when they sing of Jesus on the cross,
They know of what they sing, for they have seen.
And when they sing of resurrection, they
Have tears that flow – as those, who're grieving, pray.
Far from their homes, in a foreign land, they sing,
The ones they left at home – or gone – remembering...

I heard them singing in the basement and
I briefly thought that I could understand...
And for a moment, there, by Finbar's Church,
My heart was touched and filled, with grace divine,
As pastors poured the sacrificial wine.

November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

Company

Company

I have dusted shelves and tables,
I have swept and mopped the floors.
I have cleared away the cobwebs
On the ceiling, by the doors.

I have cleaned the greasy kitchen.
And the bathroom, how it shines...
I've cooked and set the table,
Lit the candles, opened wines...

But the guest that I've awaited
Hasn't rung the doorbell yet.
I've been feeling rather anxious...
It is late... Did she forget?

But the place is looking better
Than it's been, for quite a while...
And I've company for dinner –
A little roach, at whom I smile...

2013 July 4th, Thurs.
Brooklyn
--------------------------------------------------------------------- 
 Note:  This may have been sparked by a
recollection of a poem by Robi Thakur
(Rabindranath Tagore), in which the poet
writes of waiting for his guest, in a room 
that has been swept clean in expectation.

This was probably meant to be an allegory,
with the sweeping of the room representing
the clearing out of clutter and distractions
from the body-mind-soul, and the guest
being none other than the Divine. Of course,
all that the poet can do is wait for that guest,
who may or may not come...

Attempting, perhaps, to recast this dimly
remembered piece (perhaps from Tagore's
Gitanjali) in a modern, urban context, I was
led, by the vagaries and dictates of rhyme and
meter, to candles and wines, neither of which
have ever been part of my dinner preparations...

And into that inner realm there came also that
little being that, for all I know, is as connected
to the divine as any other... and so may be as
good a stand-in as any other for that uncertain
guest...

Mountains

Mountains

I shall walk towards the mountains,
I shall climber past the vines,
I shall tread upon the needles,
As I climb by scented pines...

I shall mount, where lichens linger,
As the mists are speeding through.
I shall leave the clouds beneath me
And I'll see the dappled view...

I shall see the verdant valley
With its silver, winding thread.
I shall see, by golden terrace,
The rhododendron red.

I shall see the light and shadow
As they race across the hills,
I shall hear the peasant calling
To his oxen as he tills...

I shall drink of green and golden,
I shall sip of distant blue.
I shall watch, with clouds dispersing,
Olympus rise in view...

I shall view the peaks that glisten,
Reflecting dazzling sun...
I shall have my glimpse of heaven,
By dint of climbing, won...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

How Beautiful-II

How Beautiful-II

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

How deep, that dark within your eyes,
How deep and dark, my dear...
I see in them the galaxies,
The planets far and near...

How melting warm, your eyes, my love,
That warm your lover's heart...
How innocent, your eyes, my love,
That speak of Nature's art...

I saw such eyes before, my love,
I saw them in a deer...
I saw them from afar, my love,
But now I see them near...

When you and I are gone, my love,
This vision will remain,
Be it in fall or wintertime,
In spring or summer's rain...

When this, our world, is gone, my dear,
This spinning orb, this Earth,
This dark I see, within your eyes,
Will see a planet's birth.

And on that planet, as it spins,
And circles through the vast,
A lover will, within such eyes,
Discern two lovers past...

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  
How Beautiful
 

Orbs Celestial

Orbs Celestial

I've seen, at dawn, the red and rising sun.
I've watched it sinking sadly in the west.
And in the noon of tropic summer, I
Have felt, upon my skin, its fiery zest.

And I have seen the ever-changing moon,
From crescent pallor, in the light of day,
To shining disk, with Venus at its side,
That lit my path on lonesome rural way.

And I have seen the planets and the stars,
On lifting eyes towards the desert sky –
And having seen, it seemed I'd drunk enough
Of wondrous joy to be content and die.

I've walked to work, before the light of dawn,
With Orion overhead – and silenced soul.
And so have orbs, celestial, touched this ant
And made, what man had madly sundered, whole.

2013 June 1st, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park,
Brooklyn

Gaia

Gaia
  
In Brooklyn, it is afternoon. The rain,
In showers light, is darkening the ground.
The skies above are layered, gray on gray,
With streamers drifting down from darkest clouds.

The sun's position can be guessed at times,
As lighter shades appear, for just a while,
And then are hidden, as the strata slide.
There's wind on high – and spawn on city streets.

And in this twilight, in the midst of day,
The rippled green is glowing, as at dusk.
The leafy heads are tousled, branches sway.
If trees were horses, they would run away.

The street lights, hanging skewed above the streets,
Turn yellow, red – and then are green again,
As they are rocked, like babies cradled high,
By titans' breath, as lords of air collide.

For Brooklyn now is witnessing the end
Of battles that had leveled town of  Moore, \1
When a whirling jinn descended on that town, \2
As one had done, a dozen years before. \3

And who unleashed these demons of the skies?
The primal one in us has answer swift –
It was the goddess of the Earth and sky.
What need is there for more of how and why?

How many aspects does the goddess have?
The arm that wields the ax can rock the child.
Behold her in her wrath, with burning eyes –
And hear her breathing now, in Brooklyn's skies.

And yet, the other voices in our mind
Remind us there is cause and there's effect.
And though effect, in turn, engenders cause,
They need no gods or goddesses on high.
 
2013 May 25th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 
Notes: 
1. the tornado in Moore, Oklahoma, 2013 May
2. image of the 2013 tornado
3. Wikipedia article on the Bridge Creek - Moore tornado of 1999
 

At Springtime

  
    At Springtime

A tree is white with flower,
    Another's tender green.
And yet another's waiting
    For season soft, serene.

At threshold, Spring is knocking
    As Winter bids goodbye,
The little birds are chirping
    And laughter's in the sky.

At curbside, lies a sparrow
    That's bleeding from her neck.
Her head, alas, is missing,
    Her body is a wreck.

But who, at her, is looking,
    On such a glorious day,
When clouds above have parted
    And April hints at May?

The days are slightly warmer,
    The tulips rise up, red,
And there's a new beginning
    For what appeared as dead.

So when will you be coming,
    Who left in wintertime,
To join with us in singing
    At Resurrection-time?

The body's gone, the spirit
    Is wandering, some will say.
As winter ends, this April,
    The Jews and Christians pray.

The Jews remember Egypt
    And their insistent God.
The Christians say their Jesus
    Rose up and is their Lord.

But since I'm not a Christian
    And even less a Jew,
I often wish, at springtime,
    The one, who'd rise, were you.

Some weeks ago, at Holi,
    The colors flew in Hind,
And earlier, in Persia,
    The bonfires waved in wind.

The spring is like the morning,
    The summer like the day,
And autumn's like the evening,
    When daylight fades away.

And then, there is the winter,
    In colder climes, like night.
And that is when you left us.
    You always did what's right.

So though there's condemnation,
    The ones, who knew you well,
Remember that, for justice,
    Our honored martyrs fell.

And you preserved your honor,
    At price that was unjust.
And so, at every Easter,
    In grace, we put our trust.

For parents lost to falsehoods,
    How many children cry!
For Clan or God or Mammon,
    How many more will die?

How many are the parents,
    Through aeons stretching dim,
Who lost their precious children
    To Man's or Fortune's whim?

Will there be Resurrection,
    As ardently believed?
This sparrow, lying headless,
    By traffic, was deceived.

If there's a resurrection,
    This sparrow then will fly.
And you will then be smiling,
    And so, perhaps, will I.

You mother and your father,
    The one you took for spouse,
Will be, with you, united,
    In that ethereal house.

    Babui / Arjun
        2011 April 20th, Wed.
    Brooklyn