A poem by Deebachelvan
Translation of the poem titled
‘UKKIP POEYIRUKKIRA AMAAVIN PUNNAGAI’
Translated into English by latha ramarishnan
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Translation of the poem titled
‘UKKIP POEYIRUKKIRA AMAAVIN PUNNAGAI’
Translated into English by latha ramarishnan
-------------------------------------------------------------
(A)
Ragged and skinny
faraway
Mother stood fixed against a
thorny-wire fence.
The thorny- wire was
tearing our faces.
With hands sans flesh
piercing through the thorny-wire
and entwining,
and, in between two curls
the thorny wires
were placed
one above the other.
Mother has lost
her smile.
The dust that has stuck
over the eyes
which her lowered head
hanging down
shield from view-
the tears dissolve.
With the great sorrow of Time
flooding
many a mother
yearning for their off-springs
were standing in a long queue
behind my ‘Amma’.
All the cries and tears-
All enquiries-
All the pain and agony of
mutual sharing
keep swelling inside the
thatched-space.
Amma’s words break
and scatter.
Abandoned children with
their hands extended
and their mothers, who were carrying them,
were stretching their hands inside
the thorny-fence.
Mother’s words
had fallen inside
the curled thorny-wires.
Within the ten minutes,
We were immersed in filling
ourselves with tears, leaving
the untold tales weigh
heavy within.
In just one beep of
the whistle
we were chased away
In different directions.
03.௦08.2009
(B)
Mother’s tent was filled to the brim,
with the terrible Sorrow of Time.
Inside the tent
filled with reddish dust,
the wild trees come to rest.
With mother and younger sister
staying huddled
inside the tent
The Sun lay
fallen on the roof.
The children bursting out
Come running in great haste
and bang against the gun.
The children kept apart
and were waiting to go past
the inner layer of
thorny wire
that scratched against the
anguished crowd
waiting eternally, in an
all too long a queue
for water,
return without meeting
their dear mothers.
As the toilets, filled up,
giving out unbearable stench
and the gutter water
getting inside the tent,
the children stand in queue
to get ‘colour’ water.
Those who had been brought
from the Land –
bent, broken and fallen
were being piled up
in the tents with
ceiling hung low
where they had to remain
crest-fallen.
As those separated-
As those searched and not found-
As those confined-
they fought against
the Sun
sandwiched between
Day and Night.
Amma is withering away…
In the white rice
that bears the logos of
NGOs
the heat of forest
uprooted,
gets buried.
The dust is shrouding
the small hearths
in between the tents.
In the great grand prison-house
well-knit by
thorny wires,
the innumerable tents
that have been converted into shields,
along with their inmates
are being enclosed by Dust.
Wandering hither and thither,
struggling to insert their faces
into the thorny wires
that are tightly knit,
tall and high-
so as not to allow those
torn apart
to have a peep and glance
neither in front
nor behind,
Those, separated
and desperate,
running from camp to camp,
keep wandering
along the road
so full of stones.
All the loud-speakers
keep blaring
‘Rhetoric of Separation’.
Mother’s wry smile,
in the corner of some camp
somewhere,
lay, turning from bad to worse,
amidst the relief-measures.
The dark, deadly gloom
that has devovoured time
drags away my beloved mother too.
04.08.2009
------------------------------------------------------------
Ragged and skinny
faraway
Mother stood fixed against a
thorny-wire fence.
The thorny- wire was
tearing our faces.
With hands sans flesh
piercing through the thorny-wire
and entwining,
and, in between two curls
the thorny wires
were placed
one above the other.
Mother has lost
her smile.
The dust that has stuck
over the eyes
which her lowered head
hanging down
shield from view-
the tears dissolve.
With the great sorrow of Time
flooding
many a mother
yearning for their off-springs
were standing in a long queue
behind my ‘Amma’.
All the cries and tears-
All enquiries-
All the pain and agony of
mutual sharing
keep swelling inside the
thatched-space.
Amma’s words break
and scatter.
Abandoned children with
their hands extended
and their mothers, who were carrying them,
were stretching their hands inside
the thorny-fence.
Mother’s words
had fallen inside
the curled thorny-wires.
Within the ten minutes,
We were immersed in filling
ourselves with tears, leaving
the untold tales weigh
heavy within.
In just one beep of
the whistle
we were chased away
In different directions.
03.௦08.2009
(B)
Mother’s tent was filled to the brim,
with the terrible Sorrow of Time.
Inside the tent
filled with reddish dust,
the wild trees come to rest.
With mother and younger sister
staying huddled
inside the tent
The Sun lay
fallen on the roof.
The children bursting out
Come running in great haste
and bang against the gun.
The children kept apart
and were waiting to go past
the inner layer of
thorny wire
that scratched against the
anguished crowd
waiting eternally, in an
all too long a queue
for water,
return without meeting
their dear mothers.
As the toilets, filled up,
giving out unbearable stench
and the gutter water
getting inside the tent,
the children stand in queue
to get ‘colour’ water.
Those who had been brought
from the Land –
bent, broken and fallen
were being piled up
in the tents with
ceiling hung low
where they had to remain
crest-fallen.
As those separated-
As those searched and not found-
As those confined-
they fought against
the Sun
sandwiched between
Day and Night.
Amma is withering away…
In the white rice
that bears the logos of
NGOs
the heat of forest
uprooted,
gets buried.
The dust is shrouding
the small hearths
in between the tents.
In the great grand prison-house
well-knit by
thorny wires,
the innumerable tents
that have been converted into shields,
along with their inmates
are being enclosed by Dust.
Wandering hither and thither,
struggling to insert their faces
into the thorny wires
that are tightly knit,
tall and high-
so as not to allow those
torn apart
to have a peep and glance
neither in front
nor behind,
Those, separated
and desperate,
running from camp to camp,
keep wandering
along the road
so full of stones.
All the loud-speakers
keep blaring
‘Rhetoric of Separation’.
Mother’s wry smile,
in the corner of some camp
somewhere,
lay, turning from bad to worse,
amidst the relief-measures.
The dark, deadly gloom
that has devovoured time
drags away my beloved mother too.
04.08.2009
------------------------------------------------------------
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