The Song of Leisure

The morning sun lies with its head resting on the rice fields,

Lazy and languid like an old farmer in the Kartik fields.

The scent of grass fills his chest; dew lingers in his eyes,

And as the rice tastes it, it ripens into weariness,

Speaking of the flavors of the body.

Perhaps the afternoon light will come and ruin this cherished moment.

All around, it is morning now—

The soft red hue of sunlight, like a child’s cheeks.

On the grassy fields, the fragrance of childhood lingers—

An invitation to a forgotten festival has arrived in the village paths.

Everywhere, crops bend under their weight,

Dewdrops fall one by one from their breasts.

The abundant aroma of grain drifts intermittently,

Filling our granaries with the smell of owls and mice!

Here, bodies stretch out lazily like ripening rice stalks.

The sunlight that once came only to kiss lips softly departs,

Leaving my body filled with joy tinged with melancholy.

Shadows, sunlight, grains, huts, and the bustle of Kartik surround me.

All hunger in the eyes fades here; ears find peace,

And the scent of threshed rice clings to the village air today.

I watch that beauty leaning over the riverbank—

Her time for departure nears, her charm begins to fade.

Winter will soon destroy her.

Yet, the year's new youth has not yet ended;

Immature sunlight spills onto the fields, dripping sweetness from our storehouses.

Like flies humming lazily in the morning sun,

This is the time of idleness.

Under the shade of trees, someone tied a jar of wine long ago,

And today we read the final page of all those poems.

Forgetting kingdoms, victories, empires—

We’ll retrieve the coolness of the wine hidden deep beneath the soil.

We’ll call back the elderly women of the village;

In the lethargic sunlight, there will be dancing—

A gentle celebration of Hemanta begins.

Hand in hand, spinning in circles,

Our faces burn in Kartik’s sweet sunlight.

Our bodies fill with the scent, color, and taste of ripened rice.

No one grows angry or jealous seeing us.

Our leisure is brief—a lazy time of love and joy,

Ending before everyone else’s.

From afar, like a river, another melody calls,

Lifting our weary heads and tired hands.

By then, the scent of grain will have faded from the fields; the sunlight will have set.

Evening arrives, carrying its calm white path.

Then, the rustling of lazy farmers ceases in the fields.

Hemanta marries off his last daughter, laying her on a bed of wilted white shiuli flowers.

The last drops of wine vanish beneath the soil of these fields.

Green grass turns white, the sky pale,

And the village women depart.

Part 2: The Echoes of Forgotten Times

Old owls emerge from their nests,

Venturing out into the darkness they see

Over the face of the fields.

Beneath the green rice stalks, inside the earth,

Mice have moved away; farmers too have left their bundles behind.

Beside the harvest fields tonight, thirst awakens within us.

On the fertile fields, we no longer seek death’s abode.

Songs of love and longing

We sing like rustic jars of the village.

Hearts full of ripened crops

Have abandoned empires, neglected all thrones of the world.

Those jars of our village—

Their bones mingle with ancient kings’ bones deep beneath the earth.

Like constables, their breath hasn’t run dry;

Like priests, they haven’t feared;

Like lovers, they haven’t let go of hearts tied to city girls’ names.

Like farmers, weary with sweat on their brows,

They haven’t cut short time.

Deep underground, their foreheads lie entwined with some emperor’s plot of land,

Side by side with warriors, victors, conquerors—

Their skulls laugh triumphantly!

Before many nights pass, they’ve departed; their daylight turned dark.

Will those rustic poets, those village jars, return to this darkness again?

Their fruitful bodies have given birth to today’s crops;

Mice scurrying through the soft night know it well—the scent of falling dew!

Those owls, seeing the stillness of evening,

Call out their names repeatedly.

From beneath the soil,

They stir awake in dead men’s dreams, signaling strange gestures.

Mosquitoes in the dark and stars understand—

We too have come at the call of the harvested fields.

Leaving behind the sunlit days, forsaking earthly glory,

Cities, ports, slums, factories lit by matches—

We descend into these fields

To forget bodily fatigue and feverish hearts.

Following moonlit dew-drenched paths,

We wish to walk, then die burned in the red fire of daylight,

Like flies buzzing aimlessly.

In the depths of endless rice sap,

We wish to fill our minds like rustic poets, like village jars.

Farmers have uprooted the land and moved on;

Their new plows remain, but old thirst

Awakens above the fields.

Time calls out to us; the owl beckons!

Hemanta’s rice blooms and fruits—

Sit here, legs stretched, upon the lap of the earth.

The moon floats and drifts along the open roads of the sky.

It has leisure—like ignorant bliss.

Ours will end when it moves westward.

So let this fleeting moment pass in songs of beauty and desire.

Part 3: The End of Toil

The scent of harvested fields fills the granary here.

There’s no need to go far, no work left for any farmer.

No barriers, no struggles, no clamor remains to hear.

I don’t care anymore where emperors ruled or Babylon crumbled to dust.

Bring no torches of soldiers’ fires near my eyes;

Silence the drums—let kingdoms and empires sink like owl wings into darkness.

Here, there’s no work—no pain of enthusiasm, no worry of effort.

Much excitement has faded from the mind.

The sound of lazy flies fills the melancholic mornings,

Making the earth feel like an illusionary land beyond the river of magic.

All descending sunlight gathers here, taking rest,

Songs of drowsy eyes drift in from summer seas.

Here, lying on beds, many days will pass—

Wishing to stay awake while dreaming.

Here, there’s no need to startle or rush.

No pain of effort, no fear of enthusiasm remains.

Work doesn’t pile up in hands here,

Thoughts don’t burden the mind.

Beauty won’t grasp hands or linger in sight.

Love won’t arrive—

The wriggling worm’s task has ended deep within the skull.

The sound of lazy flies fills the melancholic mornings,

Making the earth feel like an illusionary land beyond the river of magic.

All descending sunlight gathers here, taking rest,

Songs of drowsy eyes drift in from summer seas.

Here, lying on beds, many days will pass—

Wishing to stay awake while dreaming.