I do not know what rules were customary in the past,
whose name was invoked before the writing of oetry.
whise radiant face used to shine
in the inner chamber of the poet's heart,
or in what images, dancing with emotions
befor the very eyes of te poet,
did the moon, the metaphors, the legends flash
one after the other.
I do not know what rules are customary these days.
Living in the midst of war, death and life,
in between living and not living, all I do is fashion a woman.
I summon her, "come hither, my de3arest being of eyes,
mouth, breasts, come nearer,"and that is
my poetry's very rule.
this is the way I summon her: come my liege, come my woman
come my dearest, come.
A woman appears, balancing sev en lamps in her hands, dancing.
Seated upon a hanging swing she rocks me, like the sole of her foot.
She remains in my embrace for a while, then slips off
like the landslide on the riverbanks, and enters a kiss
as intense as the river Jamuna.
After a poem gets written, the woman turns back quickly
into the shade under the candlelight,
in a blacked-out-cafe, made useless
with the return ofelectricity.
This is the way I write; this rule is my own, my poetry's.
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