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ð¬öò àø¾ c®ˆî£½‹
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â¡ø °öŠðˆ¶ì¡
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Ü®ˆ¶‚ªè£‡´ ªê™Aø¶
Cô«ð£¶
â‚è£÷Š ð£ì™èœ
ÝŸP¡ «ñ™
ªõ° àòóˆF™ «ñ£F ñKˆ¶
Þø‰î ªê£Ÿè÷£è M¿A¡øù
ñ‚補,
Híƒè÷£™ ð£ô‹ ܬñˆ¶
ÝŸ¬ø‚ èì‚è «õ‡ì£‹
c¬óŠ HKŠð¶ Gô‹
Gôˆ¬îŠ HKŠð¶ èì™
裆¬ì å¡Á«ñ HKŠðF™¬ô
ªð¼ñóƒèO¡ Ýö æ®ò «õ˜èœ áì£è
å¼ ªî£ì˜ è¬î
ܶ
Gôˆî® óèCò‹.
ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER [2004]
(ÝŸøƒè¬óJ™)
We wait
on either side of the river.
A white-breasted kingfisher
about to speak of the last traces
of happiness, flies away
across the banks where love died.
The headless bird hurries
like a flung arrow
gliding low above the water.
Every time it touches the water
sparks fly.
The little bird sets alight
a great river of fire.
Today
there are no sounds of war
above the trenches of the army’s front ranks.
Although the former order lingers
with the old smell of explosives,
night and day come and go
not knowing
who is friend and who is foe.
The river, mute,
bears away with its force
all those who have been silenced.
Sometimes
jubilant songs, raised aloft,
crash into the river from a great height,
falling as dead words.
People,
let us not make a bridge of corpses
to cross the river.
Water divides the earth,
the sea separates lands,
but nothing sunders the forest.
There is a never-ending story
which runs along the deepest roots
of ancient trees:
the buried secret of the earth
åO ðó¾‹ ªð¼‹ ªð£¿¶
(A SEASON OF PERVADING LIGHT)
º®ò£ªîù Þ¼‰î è£ô‹ º®‰¶M†ì¶
Y죘 ñóƒèœ «õL ܬñˆF¼‰î
̃è£M¡ àô˜‰î î¬óJ™ Üñ˜‰F¼‰î«ð£¶
õö¬ñò£è â¡Qì‹ õ¼‹
èÁŠ¹ ÜE™è¬÷»‹ è£íM™¬ô
ò£«ó£ å¼õ˜ ⡬ù‚ è쉶 «ð£Aø£˜
¹¡ù¬è î¼A¡ø è¬ìC ñQîó£è
Üõ˜î£¡ Þ¼‚è‚ô‹
¶òóˆF™ ¹‹
â¡ Þîòˆ¬î ñ¬øˆ¶
õ£ó£˜ å¼õ¼‹
âõ¼‚è£õ¶ â¡ °ó™ «è†Aøî£?
ªõœOèœ ÞóM¡ è‡è¬÷‚ °¼ì£‚°A¡øù
Gøƒèœ èÁŠH¡ è¼õ¬ø‚°ˆ F¼‹¹A¡øù
àJ«ó£´ Ý´‹ M÷‚ªèù ⶾI™¬ô
á¬óˆ î¼õ‹ ò£¼I™¬ô
áK™
¹Oòƒ ªè£ŠH™ ɃA„ ªêˆîõO¡
ê£ðº‹ ¶˜‚èù¾‹ 裟¬ø G¬ø‚A¡øù
â¡ è£ô® åL‚è£è‚
裈F¼‰î ‚°†®»‹
ï‹H‚¬è Þö‰¶
É‚èˆF™ Ý›‰¶M†ì¶
è‡í£®‚ A‡íƒèœ
à¬ì‰¶ Cîø
«ð£¬îJ¡ â™ô£‚ èù¾èÀ‹
°O˜è£ôŠ ðQˆ bJ™
ðŸP âKò†´‹
⊫𣶋 Í®ˆ Fø‚°‹ ñù‚°¬èJ¡
¶JôŸø õ£J™è¬÷
⡪ø¡¬ø‚°ñ£è ܬ숶M´A«ø¡
ÜõŸ¬øˆ Fø‚è õ¼‹
嚪õ£¼ èM¬î»‹
«õ†¬èJ¡ 嚪õ£¼ ¶O»‹
ºP‰¶ M¿A¡ø¶
âõ¼‹ ÞQ õóñ£†ì£˜
A SEASON OF PERVADING LIGHT [2007]
(åO ðó¾‹ ªð¼‹ ªð£¿¶)
A time which seemed never-ending
is now at an end.
I sit upon the dry ground in the park,
fenced about with cedar trees,
even the black squirrels which surround me
customarily, have vanished.
Someone walks past:
he must be the very last man to smile.
Even if I were to hide my sorrowing heart
and call out,
no-one will come.
Can anyone hear my voice?
The stars have put out night’s eyes.
Colours have returned to the womb of darkness.
There are no lamps quickening with life;
there is no one to return my homeland to me.
There, in my homeland,
the dead woman’s nightmares and her curses
begin at the branches of the tamarind tree
and fill the air.
The puppy that waited to hear my footsteps
has lost hope and sunk into sleep.
Let the wine glasses break and shatter;
let all our intoxicated dreams
burn away in winter’s fire of ice.
Let me close forever
the entrances to my heart’s cave
which once were wide awake, opening and shutting.
Every poem that attempts to open them
fragments,
each drop of passion dissolves and drops away.
No one will ever come again.
ªî£¬ô«ðC ܬöŠ¹
(TELEPHONE CALL)
ªõœ¬÷‚ªè£® ¬èèO™ ã‰F M†«ì£‹
ܬöŠ«ð£‹ 裈F¼ƒèœ
â¡Á ªê£¡ùõK¡
ܬöŠ¬ð‚ è£íM™¬ô
ÅKò¡ ªñ™ô ªñ™ô â¿Aø«ð£¶
Þ¼œ ðó¾Aø¶
õLJ¡P Þø‚°‹ Þ¡ð‹ A¬ìò£ñ™
°¼F ªð¼è Í„Cö‚°‹
ï‡ð˜è¬÷ Þ¡ªù£¼ º¬ø 𣘂A«ø£‹
裴õ¬ó»‹ è¬ìCõ¬ó»‹
ªêŒñFˆ ªî£¬ô«ðC
ªî£ì˜‰¶ õ‰î£½‹
޶ àƒèÀ‚è£ù âù¶
ÞÁF ܬöŠð£°‹
ªê¡Á õ¼A«ø£‹.
TELEPHONE CALL [2009]
(ªî£¬ô«ðC ܬöŠ¹)
We have raised up our white flags.
No sign yet
of the promised message
for which we wait.
Darkness spreads
even as the sun rises, slowly, slowly.
We look once more at our friends
who were denied the peace of a painless death
whose blood flows as they breathe their last.
Our satellite telephones will go with us
to the cremation ground, to the very end.
But this is my final call:
We must leave now.
ï‰F‚èì™
(NANDIKADAL)
â™ô£ˆ F¬êèO½‹
è£ô£†ð¬ì º¡«ùÁAø«ð£¶
܃°ô‹ ܃°ôñ£è
Gô‹ ñ¬ø‰î¶
Gô‚裆C è¼Aò¶
ªñ÷ùˆ F¬óŠðìˆF™ æô‹ â¿Š¹Aø¶
ñ‚èœ ªð¼‰Fóœ
ªê™½‹ Þì‹ âƒ«è?
èì™ñ®»‹ èìŸè¬ó»‹
¶¬í GŸ°‹ âù„ ªê¡«ø£K¡
臺¡«ù
°ÁAˆ ªîPˆ¶ ñ¬ø‰î¶
èì™
NANDIKADAL [2009]
(ï‰F‚èì™)
When the platoons advanced
from all directions
inch by inch,
the land vanished,
the landscape blackened.
On the silent screen
the multitudes raise their lament:
Where can we go?
They had travelled, believing
the sea’s lap and its kind shore
would be their harbour.
Before their very eyes
the sea shrank,
scattered,
vanished.
ñí™ ªõO
(A STRETCH OF SAND)
èì™ ªè£‡ì ð†®ùˆF¡
ñ홪õOJ™ êK‰¶ Aì‰î¶
ªð¼‹ C½¬õ
Üî¡«ñ™ è£Lö‰î
CõŠ¹ ªï´ƒè£™ ó
èùˆî «ð£˜ õ£èùƒèO¡
Þ¼‹¹„êƒAL Ü®ˆîìƒè¬÷
ܬôèœ Þ¡‹ Ü®ˆ¶„ ªê™ôM™¬ô
àJ˜ Þ¼‰î Þì‹ Ãø
å¼ °PŠ¹‹ Þ™¬ô
è¬óJ™
MK‰F¼‰î ð¬ùe¶
AN‰¶ ªî£ƒ°‹ «ê¬ô
GôˆF¡ W›
°ö‰¬îèO¡ Üôø™ åL «è†«ì¡
öñó õ£ê‹ Þ¡Á
裟PQ«ô Þ™¬ô
â¡ Þòô£¬ñJ¡ è‡aK™
b õ÷¼‹ ï£ìŸø 
A STRETCH OF SAND [2009]
(ñí™ ªõO)
On a stretch of sand along a city
washed away by the sea
a huge cross lay, fallen.
On top of it, a heron
whose long red legs were broken.
The waves had not yet washed away
tracks made by the iron chains
of heavy armoured vehicles.
Not a sign to tell
where the living had been.
Only, on a spreading palmyra tree
by the shore,
a torn sari, hanging.
Underground, I heard
children screaming.
Today the wind carries
no scent of the screwpine.
In my futile tears
only the raging fire
of a land denuded.
Þ¼œ
(DARKNESS)
ð£†ìŸøõ˜èœ Þ¼¬÷ˆ «î®ò¬ô‰î«ð£¶
õN îõP  Þ¼‰î èì«ô£ó‹ õ‰î Í¡Á ËÁ
°ö‰¬îèO¡ àô˜‰î è‡aK™ òˆ «î®‚
è¬÷ˆî ²¬ñAŠ ð£ó‹ º®MLò£Œ ˆ ªî£ì¼ªñù
♫ô£˜‚°‹ ªîK‰î£½‹ å¼õ¼«ñ Þî¬ù âF˜
𣘂èM™¬ô â¡ø «ð£L ÜP‚¬èèO¡ è£ò£î ¬ñ¬ò»‹
èò¬ñJ¡ Gö¬ô»‹ cƒèœ ÜPò£M†ì£½‹
èMë¡ ÜPõ£¡ è¬î.
DARKNESS [2009]
(Þ¼œ)
When they who were bereft of song
went about in search of darkness
I, having lost my way,
found myself at a seashore
where three hundred children came,
weary of searching for their mothers,
their tears dry upon their faces,
carrying a burden we all knew
would be ours for all time.
You may not know of the ink
not yet dry, nor the stain of deceit
in the false announcement:
These events were totally unexpected.
But the poet knows.
èìL¡ è¬î
(THE SEA’S STORY)
èì™ ðŸP ÝJó‹ èM¬î â¿F«ù¡
º®òM™¬ô
è콋
èM¬î»‹
à¬ø‰î èì¬ô»‹ ªîK»‹
âPè¬íèO¡ âKñ¬ö‚°ˆ îŠH
èì«ô£´ ܬôò õ‰îõ˜è¬÷
èŠð«ô£´ èM›ˆî èì¬ô»‹
ªîK»‹
𣴋 e¡ ð´ˆî èì™
FIƒAô‹ M¬÷ò£´‹
ð„¬ê‚ èì™
«ðó£¬ê‚ èì™
âù
â™ô£‚ è콋 ªîK‰î£½‹
èì™ èì™î£¡
èM¬î èM¬î
èJP¿ŠH™ ªõŸP»I™¬ô
«î£™M»I™¬ô.
THE SEA’S STORY [2009]
(èìL¡ è¬î)
I wrote a thousand sea-poems
but there is no end
to the sea,
nor to poetry.
I know the frozen sea.
I know, too, the sea that wrecked
the ship and all those in it,
fleeing from the rain of fire,
from falling rockets,
who hoped to roam the sea.
I know every sea –
the sea where fish sing and sleep,
the sea where dolphins play,
the green sea,
the greedy sea.
Yet the sea is the sea
and poetry is poetry.
In the pull of the rope
there is neither victory
nor defeat.
áN‚°Š H¡
(AFTER APOCALYPSE)
ªè£¬ô‚裆C
ªð£Œ¬ñ»‹ õ¡ñ‹ Å› ñ£ò‚裆CèÀ‹
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¹¬è»ì¡ «ê˜‰¶ «ñªô¿‰î«ð£¶
ªê£™ Hø›‰î¶
ð®ñƒèœ à¬ì‰îù
õ£›‚¬è °¼F Þö‰î¶
âPè¬í ð†´ˆ ªîP‚è‚
è£ò‹ð†ì
Þó‡ì¬ó õò¶‚ °ö‰¬îJ¡ ¬èè¬÷
ñò‚è ñ¼‰F¡P ÜÁ‚A¡ø ñ¼ˆ¶õ¡
Þ‚èí‹ è쾜
cóŸø MNèÀì¡ ÜôÁ‹ 
å¼ Hꣲ.
Ü…êL
¹¬î»‡ìõ˜èœ
âK»‡ìõ˜èœ
èìªô£´ «ð£ùõ˜èœ
♫ô£ó¶‹ ªîOõ£ù, F¼ˆîñ£ù îèõ™èœ
àôèŠ ðEñ¬ùJ¡
Gôˆî® Ýõí‚ è£ŠðèƒèÀ‚°Š «ð£ŒM†ìù
âƒèœ ♫ô£¼¬ìò 埬øŠ ¹¬î°Ne¶
ð¬ìˆî÷ðFJ¡ «è£õ투î
«îCò‚ ªè£®ò£è ãŸÁAø£˜èœ
âƒèœ è‡a˜ â¿ŠHò G¬ù¾„ C¡ùˆF™
å¼õ˜ ªõŸÁ õ£˜ˆ¬îè¬÷ ⿶Aø£˜
ðô˜ èù¾è¬÷Š H¡Aø£˜èœ
ªñ÷ù‹ è¬ôò£ñ™
Üõ¡
èM¬î¬ò ⿶Aø£¡.
î¬ôº¬ø
å¼ î¬ôº¬ø‚° º¡
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