Ominous is not loot of labour,
Or torture by the police,
Even greed that betrays is not most ominous at all.
To get caught unawares is rather bad,
Rather bad is to be muffled in timid silence,
But this is not ominous at all.
To get lost in the noise of corruption
To submit even when right is rather bad,
Rather bad is to read in the light of the glowworm,
To pass with pips screwed is bad
But this is not ominous at all.
Ominous is infact
To be filled with dead silence,
Lose concern and bear all things unconcerned,
To become the slave of routine,
Ominous is in fact
The death of our dreams.
Ominous is the watch
That vibrant on your wrist
Seems still when looked for time.
The eye is ominous
That sees all tat is cold as ice,
That forgets to feel the world with love
And falls for the sizzling blindness of things,
That imbibing the ordinariness of the world
Gets lost in the useless routine of life.
Ominous is the moon
That after each killing
Rises in courtyard muffled in silence,
But does not rancour like peppers in the eyes.
Ominous is the song
That to reach your ears
Goes beyond mourning,
And laughs like the cough of a boss
On the thresholds of the frightened faces.
Ominous is the night
In which owls shriek and jackals cry
Clinging to frames of eternally closed doors.
Ominous is the quarter
On which the sun of conscience sets
And the fragment of its dead silence
Enters a part of your body:
Loss of labour is not ominous,
Nor is torture by the police,
Even the greed that betrays is not ominous.
Translated by Tejwant Singh Gill
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