The Moment of Creation
This is leisure, and you, its muted breeze.
Not a couple of hour's idling, or watching the Gourisringa
from a warm terrace;
Neither the gentle crumbling away of an eloquent dusk,
Nor the repose of tired nerves.
It is to feel time stretch into infinity,
To feel that there never can be death.
As if, all that lies hidden beneath the stream of flow,
All that is lost with the dying away,---
Of the crowds of people on the
The faint attempts at speech by
The foolish grin of the flower
Come back gently, take form, regain life;
All together--- the scarlet flowers, the secret worms,
And all that which is impossible.
Like one who has left the familiar behind for the first time,
And then with a sudden roar
immense and black,---
from the earth,
The jet escapes into the heart of an endless night,
Into a nameless area bordering the conscious---
He sees then:
Which within the known had escaped imagination---
Lights, vehicles, buildings, ships in the harbour,
The city suddenly exposed in its entirety;
And then only the night, the space, and a few stars remain;
Fears vanish, tears sink within;
On the silent mind's easel of wakeful slumbers
All that he has left behind---all of it,
All that is yet to come--all of it,
Bound by a single moment.
This then is leisure. You, its frozen rhapsody.
The original poem [sR^ishhTir muhUta.r* by buddhadeb basu*] appeared in the collection of poems marache pa.Daa pereker gaan*, first published in 1966. This poem was written on December 5, 1962.
Translated by Nandini
gupta*] - Nandini
Gupta is a post-doctoral research fellow at the Eindhoven University of Technology, the Netherlands, working on ... (more)
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