The Accusation

My friend , You have accused me Of stealing the color from a butterfly Of your town. I tore out of some garden, you say, A sapling of gulmohar And planted it In a desolate and barren cemetery. Just as the coral tree Has bitter roots, So, in my heart, Lies sin! I am degenerate, immoral, You have judged me to be vile! I am well aquainted with pain and have deliberately Made it my power. I am a bird of prey and do not care For the friendship of little birds. My colors are false, I am a dishonest dyer! The inky serpent of fame Lies around my neck And strikes, with my songs, Little heart-baskets! My pain, like Ashwathaama’s Is never-ending! You remind me that my body-room Will disintegrate soon enough. In exchange for fragrant songs I trade in wombs. I am, you write A very adolescent trader. You say that a shadow Is a child of light. It is not the duty of a shadow To separate. The duty of a shadow is Devotion to light. In light, to always be ahead, And to extinguish itself in light. Even a bird can fly away If is miserable in its cage. But each day I catch and discard new birds. The reason I do this, you say, is that I covet just one thing, The sorrow in my soul. Because every song I sing, Is a song of sorrow. You also write About one butterfly. The butterfly who spent a short time In my garden, The butterfly with a weakness for, Silver flowers, The butterflywho desired, Golden stars. Her face was sweet, Like the moon in a desert. My songs Were very dear to her. You considered me A son of Saraswati, Today your opinion about me Is altered! At the end you have written That I ought to be ashamed of myself! That I should drown myself In a tub of acid! I should take my sick self - Along with my songs - And leave the environs Of your town today! Society has no need Of my worthless sorrows! I should be fighting for The rights of workers! I ought to disperse the color Of my beloved To the grain in the fields. I ought to take the sorrow of the world, And set it, like a jewel, in a ring of songs!