Dance

In the garden in Corniche

In the playground bound by a metal fence,

While the Arab teenage kicks the ball,

The feet of the Sudanese, sitting on the stone bench nearby

Start prickling;

Cries out that

For one who knows how to score goals,

The hunger to kick a ball

Is the ultimate one!

Me? I shall remain nameless!

The fisherman 

Whose whole body tingles

As he espies a shiver of gigantic sharks

Even while swimming for life, 

Having lost his boat and fishing net in the deluge,

The nun, whose breasts start secreting

As she watches a bawling baby,

Standing amidst toddlers of the nursery

The swimmer,

Who crawls through the desert

On camel-back

I do not ask for anything else

Just the ball and the opposition

Let a thousand, or, tens of thousands, come

Let the goal-mouth

Be miles distant,

I do not ask for anything else

Once, while carrying a load of cement

On the tenth floor,

For a moment,

A moment,

The sun tempted, as a huge ball.

The scar of the beating received

While dribbling the sun on the sky meadow

Remains on the back..

There are balls anyone can play with.

No, all surges ahead

Do not end in goals.

There are no games that do not have ‘foul’ -

Even in dreams.

There are no Arab children

In the playground now.

Jut the ball, ball, ball alone.

It scurries hither and thither

By itself,

Races outside,

Speeds towards the goal-mouth,

Sometimes ducks out of sight.

Very privately,

And even more secretly,

Ball smiled at me.

A shudder of incarnations

In my toes.

As soon as the ball and feet

Left the playground,

Two legs

Started dancing,

Betwixt twilight and night.

Translation / Anitha Varma