Tempest of time (poems)

-Kondapalli Niharini

Translated by Elanaaga


Whena flame rages beneath the pan of
half-cooked rice, I feel the pain of besieging taunts.
Like the stories of paltry grains for hungry stomachs,
in the shade of subject, object, verb
amidst the disparities between rich and poor,
I feel as if I got stuck in scissors.
What can be said about scissors?
Scissors too have some seats of power,
some groups, some cuts.
Scissors that lurk behind, don’t allow talk,
scissors that cannot snip hatred…
each pair of scissors makes holes
in existence and pictures.
To some, life is a play of scissors;
a quest for food like the one for clothes.
To conduct childbirth
or to join bones, scissors are a must.
They are famous for the
seasonal spurt of libido as well.
They even become an obstacle
to wedding muhurthams!
Even a kid needs them in an art class.
Scissors are a modern tool
hidden behind the tangles of the world.
They aid in dividing pens, castes;
lift to heights, fling to bottom.
They help obtain approval; their magic helps
Secure an ‘A’ certificate for movies.
Why talk about mundane and spiritual?
Scissors lift the curtain to
obscene, untrue, abhorrent scenes.
Maybe they are gem-studded!
To describe the formed and unformed deeds,
scissors is the word that crops up again and again.

(NamastheTelangana,Chelime, dated 3rd February 2020)


(To be continued-)

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