The Last Will of the Dalit Poet

A dalit poet

Leaves several things behind:

A paper dripping wet with blood,

A black sun

On the night’s head,

A river of blood,

A lantern of his ancestors.

He never assault you with

Symbols,

Metaphors

Or personalities.

A heavy burden on a donkey’s back,

He himself a wounded shadow.

He has no existence.

There is little difference

Between him and a broken cup.

He,who makes images with cow-dung

Has at least the sense to know

That in the hour glass,

In the smell of exiled earth,

In the sunflower of rebellions,

In the spear of the pen and the ink,

Art lives forever.

But now,

He is looking for his existence.

He is looking for himself.

He is proud to call himself

A dalit poet.

Tr. Baidar Bakht