Kathakali

Small words—
she never speaks them.
 
In a mind half-hidden, bound in silence,
her eyes say everything to mine.
 
Words for the sake of words,
monotonous and pale,
 
sometimes heard
while love is weaving its net.
 
One night,
words blossom in the mouth—
 
a sudden nightmare,
a room gone dark;
 
a solitary soul
in the lamp of midnight,
 
trying to hide
every dream-breath, yet revealed—
 
on the breast of clouds
they long to drift away.
 
Among the insulted,
countless spoken words—
 
one night,
when time stumbled out of order,
 
she almost said
the unspoken things,
 
but hid them,
and chose not to leave.
 
In sleep and dream I see—
who can tell these things?
 
At dawn’s edge, the heart cries
in liquid weakness;
 
blossoms of spring,
Kathakali in Brajabuli.
 
I have listened with care,
in utmost secrecy—
 
you can tell her heart
by the rhythm of birds in flight.
 
Again and again in our gaze
the river has flowed;
 
with the mouth, skyward,
my green garden speaks;
 
with the head, in jest—
yet homecoming never came.
 
Now—what time is it?
Who keeps their ear to the news?
 
By law, at the last breath
one day I’ll see there is nothing;
 
then a painter
will break my legs,
 
trying to teach
a poem of love—
and die in the attempt.
 
Then, with all waters drunk,
on a desperate journey one day,
 
after much hardship,
on the last bus home,
 
I’ll see the familiar Kathakali,
her luxury-laden pose,
 
lying to one side,
her great heart still today—
 
what I had once heard
was far from the truth.
 
In fond calls,
with constant blushes,
 
where is she now,
remembering those words of old?
 
If she knows, let her know—
that cursed truth;
 
today she will
no longer know him.
 
Kathakali, you know—
this beggar of love,
 
in the language of my mouth
you will not understand;
 
in the tone of my voice
you will not recognise.
 
Unless you look
once into my eyes,
 
a thousand years of earth
will turn into history,
 
and knowing me
will never be yours.