With an umbrella in one hand, and

the warm, fragile, fingers of yours on the other,

I want to walk with you on this rainy day,

to the places where the sun will shine wisely

and where every bird will dance on its rays.

When there is a room, you know,

between you and me,

the slanting drizzle may dissolve us;

so, my dear, come closer to me under the umbrella,

leaving all your—thoughts, faiths, guileless trusts—but bring only love.

We shall make peace from the love.

In this journey, from the dry desert to the timid twigs,

let’s give shelter to the kings and the rustics—sitting next to each other.

We shall walk the long distance recklessly.

I will plow the stubborn land,

and you—my goddess—will sow the seed.

When you are tired and doubtful, whisper in my ear

but don’t let the world know about your weakness. Our weakness.

Otherwise, they will make love from the peace.

 

In the dusk, we will rest under the trees

where the placid wind will make it rain twice.

You will wander your fearful yet innocent eyes,

though knowing that we too only exist in this world,

and come closer to my friendly chest.

In the wet alley, the breeze will touch our naked body.

With the cacoethes and clemency concentrated in the body,

Let’s splash the holy Ganges over the Stars, the Moon, and the Crossing lights.

Let them all sink from where they arose.

Let them realize that they once suckled the same mother’s breast

but soon forgot the taste of the milk

and began to think their mother had forever been different.

After that, let there be a common love song,

not of mine, not of yours, but of ours.

Let’s see from the same eye though different picture:

the picture of a mother calling her dead son

and the endless cry absorbed by the barren land.

 

Consequently, our umbrella might be taken by the tornado

filled with gold, vain, and fake power.

But fear not, my love!

I have been through such situations many times.

So all you do is grip my heart tightly and trust me.

We will fall, sure, sometimes you will fall too deep

and sometimes I will fall too high.

But one day, the storm will regret

taking our precious and priceless umbrella, and return it

soon after the abyss remorse,

and we will again be under the umbrella.

-Rozesh Gautam

 

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