On whose shoulders perches the Eagle
Who mourns through gusts of the eastern rushing winds

A boy who grew up in dullness couldn’t get out of it for the rest of his life
he felt gloomy on all evenings and smiled at the the slightest of the raindrops
he saw the decades descend on the great delta and thought he would have a rising too
the one that would pull him out of the clutches of nights and days

Grief is borne out of grief, he thought, and nothing else happens
so it was the rising that never came and grief only paved way for further grief

The delta surged with new delights
newer brigades took over the streets and the palaces
he scribbled and he kept scribbling
to the rise of the delta and the tedium of his own
Everything will pass, he wrote, nothing will remain,
the tree that gave you the shelter
the you that took the shelter
the shelter that gave and the act of taking
There is no enigma greater than a symbol staring at you meaninglessly
there is no misery greater than you
you are the life
you are the end

He walked along the shores with a peasant’s feet
with a smell of the soil in his soul harvested by generations
toiling and dying in the fields
his hands carried the language of harvests
through his eyes flew the monsoons
the dreary summers
and the long hopeless waits
scattered along the earthen roofs
along the weary shadows of Neem

We were no warriors
our king taught us to fight
and so we fight
with our enemies
with our lives and our times
we plough through the fields and raise gold

He walked by the cities that rose to the skies
with a demeanour that mocked him
ridiculed him
and even threatened him
This is no place for me
this city of hollow people; with billows of wealth rising from its trenches
It’s blue, sky high sepulchers
shone deep in to the pupils of his eyes
blinding him
pushing him back
mauling him, crushing him to death

This is no place for me, he thought I belong to the wild
to the forests and fields and the hills
and the river that flows through my heart
I walk down the road that passes through the planes
and the faraway lands
where truth lays scattered in feathers
of slain birds; of drained seas
I walk in to the cold
in to the dark grey blossoms;
the sounds sublime

Who am I, my beloved, he asked
to the skies, to the waters , to the winds
Where am I headed for ?

Decades have gone by and he hasn’t reached anywhere
and the Godavari, she has flown past another million years..


Anant Dhavale is a poet and translator based out of Pune who writes poems in Marathi and Urdu languages. His poems have appeared in various reputed journals in both these languages like ‘Nav Anushtubh’; ‘Prathishthan’ (Marathi) and ‘Aaj Kal’ (Urdu) .