Poem
Prabodh Parikh
There is a festival
There is a festivalof kites, too.
Even sorrow
has a home of its own.
There is a bridge
of understanding, too.
Even the eye
has a mind of its own.
If we are, that’s how we are,
merry and soaped
by the ritual Ganga
There’s even an illusion
of joy.
The game of words
The void
has a colour, too.
© Translation: 1992, Naushil Mehta and Ranjit Hoskote
There is a festival
© 1994, Prabodh Parikh
From: Kaunsman
Publisher: R R Seth, Mumbai
From: Kaunsman
Publisher: R R Seth, Mumbai
Poems
Poems of Prabodh Parikh
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There is a festival
There is a festivalof kites, too.
Even sorrow
has a home of its own.
There is a bridge
of understanding, too.
Even the eye
has a mind of its own.
If we are, that’s how we are,
merry and soaped
by the ritual Ganga
There’s even an illusion
of joy.
The game of words
The void
has a colour, too.
© 1992, Naushil Mehta and Ranjit Hoskote
From: Kaunsman
From: Kaunsman
There is a festival
There is a festivalof kites, too.
Even sorrow
has a home of its own.
There is a bridge
of understanding, too.
Even the eye
has a mind of its own.
If we are, that’s how we are,
merry and soaped
by the ritual Ganga
There’s even an illusion
of joy.
The game of words
The void
has a colour, too.
© 1992, Naushil Mehta and Ranjit Hoskote
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