Fed up with himself when the Creator
Had been undoing the new creation over and over again,
In those days of his impatient nodding
The terrible hands of the ocean
Snatched you away from the bosom
Of the Oriental world, O Africa,
Confining you to the intimate vigil of the tall forest trees,
In the sanctum niggardly in light.
Within that secret recess
You had been collecting the mystery of the impenetrable
In an apprenticeship of the unintelligible auguries
behind water and earth and sky,
A magic escaping Nature's glance
Had been resounding the sacred syllable in your superconscient mind.
Disguised in adversity
You had been laughing at the redoubtable,
Desiring to tame your diffidence
Transforming yourself into the intense and scorching grandeur
19 Two other versions of the same poem appear in the bibliographical note at the end of Vol. X of the Collected Works in Bengali by Rabindranath : (a) 74 lines of unrhymed free verse, published in Visvabharati Patrika, No.
2, 1351 Bengali Year (1944); (2) 53 lines of unrhymed free verse from Kavita, October 1937
Of a nightmare
Accompanied by the war-drums of an apocalyptic dance.
O shadowed woman !
Behind your dark veil loomed
Unknown the silhouette of your humanity
Facing the vicious gaze of indifference.
With nails far sharper than those of your packs of wolf
They approached you with their handcuffs of steel,
Appeared hunters of men
Far more blinded by their conceit
than your sunless forests.
The civilised, out of their savage appetite
Stripped naked their shameless barbarity.
The woodlands shrouded in the vapour of your wordless whimper
Turned the dust into mud with your blood and tears;
Crushed by the spiked shoes of the robber-feet
Lumps of hideous clay
Marked with indelible scars
the history of your humiliation.
Right at that moment, across the ocean, from district to district
Inside the temples rang the bells for worship
Every morning and evening
to celebrate the Merciful God,
Whereas children played on their mothers' lap,
The poets' songs were heard in Beauty's praise.
Today when on the Western horizon
Evening grows suffocating under a tempest
When from their hidden den the beasts emerge
To announce in ominous sounds that the day is done,
Arise, O Poet of the epoch's end,
Under the last waning ray of the dusk
Stand on the doorway of that Woman ripped of her honour
And pray : "Forgive us !"
In the midst of a fierce delirium
Let that be the final pious message of your civilisation.
[ Patraput, "Leaf-made cask", No. 16, 1937]
77. War-mongers20
The bass drum of war started pealing.
Their necks turned downward, reddening their eyes,
They started chattering their teeth
And set out in gangs to complete the feast of Death
With the raw flesh of men.
First of all they marched towards the temple of Buddha,
the compassionate
For invoking his blessings.
Roared the war-drums with volleys of their horns,
Trembled the earth.
The incense burnt, rang the bells and prayers echoed in the sky :
20 In a note, Rabindranath mentioned that a Japanese warrior had been to a Temple dedicated to Buddha, to pray for his success in the war : "they are piercing China with their arrows of power and Buddha with their arrows of devotion." (cf: Complete Works in Bengali, Vol. 10, p.668, 1997 edition).
"Mercy on us, fulfill our desire !"
Since they were about to induce heart-rending cries
Piercing the air,
Tear in the dwellings all ties of love,
Hoist their banner on forgotten villages brought down to ashes,
Lower up to dust all homes of knowledge,
Shatter the seats where beauty is adored.
Therefore they march on to receive the blessings of Buddha the All Mercy.
Roared the war-drums with volleys of their horns,
Trembled the earth.
They will keep an account of the number of persons killed
And of those who got maimed,
Beating the rhythm, after every thousand
They will mark on their tympani in triumph.
They will arouse the guffawing of fiends
By scattering the tattered limbs of women and children.
They merely implore to fill people's ears
With the message of falsehood,
To intoxicate people's breath with venom.
Led by that hope they march towards the temple
of Buddha the Merciful
To receive the blessings of his serene face.
The war-drums are roaring with volleys of their horns,
The earth is trembling.
[ Patraput, "Leaf-made cask", No. 17, 1937]