This parrot
hadn't even seen eighteen springs.
Leaving the world, the cage of swords,
and its paper springs
it flew away to the faraway jungle,
eating guns and bayonets
as tender leaves.
It played ball with bombs.
While other children of its age
played with toy donkeys
it played with axes.
It hadn't even completed
practising on leaf slates
the alphabet of its experiences
to read and rule the world
when hunters, spotting its red beak,
shot it down.
The parrot died
but the jungle is still spreading.
My translation of the Telugu poem 'cilakaa-aDivii' by Sikhamani (from his collection of poetry 'muvvala cEtikarra' ).
Tags: Sikhamani