Cheran Rudhramoorthy
To not sing about the afternoon
Is impossible.
The one wandering the desert,
his voice wringing with grief,
is not the singer—
in his path, marble tears
of sunlight and patti flowers;
The nectar’d voice from
the mosque that calls one to pray
is filled with Rumi’s tenderness.
I left all of that to return
home in a ship broken
by an iceberg.
Who scattered the salt
even before the street
in front of the house
is bathed in snow?
Does God extinguish
the street lights
during the day?
What shall I call
the salty kiss
returned now by the one
who turns aside,
her hair loose,
in our strange bed
even as the heat
abounds with misty love.
Translated from Tamil by Geetha Sukumaran.
