Untimely Rain… Bandla Madhava Rao, Telugu, Indian
What does it matter to me now
where the clouds come from?
When I am severed from this soil
And bade goodbye to farming,
What if it rains on time or, untimely?
Once the chord between me and water snapped
what matters if it my barren fields are overcast with nimbus.
let it rain
wherever it pleases… in brambles, bushes, rills and ponds.
it can no longer help a seed sprout in my field.
let it thunder in hailstorms or hurricanes
it can neither quenches my thirst any more
nor, shall wash off my sweat from my back.
it is just the same if it rains in concrete jungles
or over the land I was alienated from.
The rain that drowns now
could no longer solve the hardened sod of my life.
And it failed to refill verdure in the dried up crop
waiting relentlessly during that summer season.
And the idling agricultural tools became food for white ants.
let it rain
it no longer concerns me
when the pal had long parted his ways.
when it is destined to meet the sewage drains
it matters little wherever it rains.
When the whole farm had become barren,
and the land is traded throwing currency across
even a seasonal rain becomes a belated rain.
When rain can’t sink into the soil
to regenerate as life once more,
wherever it rains or whenever it rains
it is just a downpour of water but not rain.
అనువాదలహరి 