The Passportby Sukanto BhottacharjoThe breath of the child that's born tonightBore me these tidings: A passport it has received, So at the portals of its new world it declaims its rights With a shrill cry as soon as it is born. So tiny and helpless! yet how its clenched fist Is raised, glowing With the ardor of an incomprehensible resolve. No one can make out what it says. Some laugh, some only mildly remonstrate. But I have grasped that language, Received the new message of the coming age - In the eyes of the new-born, dim with mist, I read its credentials. The new-born is here, we'll have to make room for it; Unsuccessful in this worn-out world, we'll have to leave With a heap of corpses and ruin on our back. I'll depart, yet today, while there is life in me I will with all my might cleanse this world's dung-heap, I'll leave this world habitable for the child - To the new-born that is my resolute pledge. At last, when all my work is done, With my own blood the new child Will I anoint - Then become history. Translation by Mita Mukherjee and Sondwip Mukherjee. To order The Passport, a collection of representative poems by Sukanto Bhottacharjo, write Saraswat Library, 206 Bidhan Sarani, Calcutta 700 006, India.Two Eyes Magazine: Home | Issue 1 contents |