The sun habitually
cajoles men with red lollipops.
Day is mother’s lap–in her colourfully printed sari
one hides the face and rests.
The whole day
we keep hiding behind things
but the night.
A Jewish poet of Manhattan had said in my presence once
“I love you, but I don’t like you.”
When I love the universe manifested
in the passionate body of the night,
I am not myself.
Amidst eternal stars
the moon, of many deaths and many births,
must be ashamed of himself.
Each human being knows this
throwing away even that little veil
the fourteenth of every dark fortnight
the new moon night
presents its star-studded, exquisite body
to me shamelessly.
Then from within me also rises
one who doesn’t even care for me
a super-human devoid of humanity
stretches his hand towards the next dawn
catches hold of the fresh sun
and in the lovely but unknown space of the night
(Translated from Gujarati by Varsha Das)