Poem
Kunwar Narain
The Killing of a Tree
This time he was not there –the old tree that always stood at attention,
like a guard at the door to my house.
His worn leathery trunk
weather-beaten life
wrinkled rough upright shabby,
withered branch like a rifle,
turban of leafy flowers,
rugged boots on feet,
creaking, but full of vigorous courage
In sun in rain
in rain in cold
untiringly alert
in khaki fatigues
He’d accost from afar, “Who goes there?”
“A friend,” I’d answer
and sit down for a moment
under his benign shade.
In fact, there always lurked in our ways
the mortal fear of some common foe –
the house had to be saved from thieves
the city from plunderers
the nation from its enemies
had to be saved –
river from becoming drain
air from becoming smoke
food from becoming poison
jungles from becoming deserts
humans from becoming jungles.
© Translation: 2005, Apurva Narain
THE KILLING OF A TREE
© 2002, Kunwar Narain
From: In Dino
Publisher: Rajkamal Prakashan, New Delhi
From: In Dino
Publisher: Rajkamal Prakashan, New Delhi
Poems
Poems of Kunwar Narain
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The Killing of a Tree
This time he was not there –the old tree that always stood at attention,
like a guard at the door to my house.
His worn leathery trunk
weather-beaten life
wrinkled rough upright shabby,
withered branch like a rifle,
turban of leafy flowers,
rugged boots on feet,
creaking, but full of vigorous courage
In sun in rain
in rain in cold
untiringly alert
in khaki fatigues
He’d accost from afar, “Who goes there?”
“A friend,” I’d answer
and sit down for a moment
under his benign shade.
In fact, there always lurked in our ways
the mortal fear of some common foe –
the house had to be saved from thieves
the city from plunderers
the nation from its enemies
had to be saved –
river from becoming drain
air from becoming smoke
food from becoming poison
jungles from becoming deserts
humans from becoming jungles.
© 2005, Apurva Narain
From: In Dino
From: In Dino
The Killing of a Tree
This time he was not there –the old tree that always stood at attention,
like a guard at the door to my house.
His worn leathery trunk
weather-beaten life
wrinkled rough upright shabby,
withered branch like a rifle,
turban of leafy flowers,
rugged boots on feet,
creaking, but full of vigorous courage
In sun in rain
in rain in cold
untiringly alert
in khaki fatigues
He’d accost from afar, “Who goes there?”
“A friend,” I’d answer
and sit down for a moment
under his benign shade.
In fact, there always lurked in our ways
the mortal fear of some common foe –
the house had to be saved from thieves
the city from plunderers
the nation from its enemies
had to be saved –
river from becoming drain
air from becoming smoke
food from becoming poison
jungles from becoming deserts
humans from becoming jungles.
© 2005, Apurva Narain
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