Debarati Mitra

The Imaginary Jungle

Greenery gone astray may have
played here--
glassy leaves lying about,
delicate feathery rock-flowers,
ruins.
Flawlessly modeled figure,
as if, just now,
Art
had finished drawing with the final brushwork
the chimera of the unrestrained forest.
Waking up from sleep I see
rows of the bush called Lord of Snakes;
vast, uncanny solitude;
bright, silent flowers--
forever, this forever.

Why did you show me the rains?
Why, in water up to the knees,
did the resonance of the trees drown
the spell-bound inhalation--sleeping, tepid, sea-blue--
that broke through the horizon and drew near?
Mercury has tilted slightly.
The forest god's eyes, impatient honeycombs,
drip liquid from their corners,
drip from the queen bee's broken wings, her sting.

It's all a mistake.




Translated from the Bengali by Paramita Banerjee and Carolyne Wright