The Story of the Field

Meadow Moon

The meadow moon gazes,

At my face, to the right and left—

Burnt fields, straw, stubble, cracks in the field,

Dewdrops.

The meadow moon—like a sickle, crooked, sharp—

Stares; it has watched countless nights, unmeasured, unwritten.

The meadow moon says:

‘Beneath the sky,

The edge of the plow has worn away from tilling,

The time for harvesting has come and gone long ago!

The crops have fruited—why then

Do you stand still,

Alone? To the right and left,

Straw, stubble, burnt fields, cracks in the field,

Dewdrops!’

I reply to it:

‘Crops have grown and fallen many times,

Grains have scattered endlessly—

You’ve grown old, like this aged earth!

The edge of the plow has worn away countless times,

Countless harvests have come and gone long ago!

The crops have fruited—why then

Do you remain standing,

Alone? To the right and left,

Burnt fields, straw, stubble, cracks in the field,

Dewdrops!’

The Owl

The first harvest has gone home—

In Hemanta’s fields, dewdrops fall,

Only dew remains.

The river’s breath chills,

Bamboo leaves, dead grass, stars in the sky freeze;

The moon pours icy fountains like frost.

In the rice fields, on the meadows,

A smoky mist gathers, sharp with dew.

The farmers have returned home;

This earth dozes.

Yet I sense

Someone whose eyes hold no desire for sleep.

Amid yellowing leaves, perched,

Feathers brushed with dew,

Under the shadow of wings, branches hidden,

Watching dreams and dreamers,

With the meadow moon and stars,

On an Agrahayan night,

That bird stays awake.

Today it comes to mind—

That day too, just like this,

The first harvest went home,

Dewdrops fell in the fields,

Was it Kartik or mid-Agrahayan noon?

Amid yellowing leaves, perched,

Feathers brushed with dew,

Under the shadow of wings, branches hidden,

Watching dreams and dreamers,

With the meadow moon and stars,

That bird stayed awake on an Agrahayan night.

The river’s breath chilled that night too,

Bamboo leaves, dead grass, stars in the sky froze;

The moon poured icy fountains like frost.

In the rice fields, on the meadows,

A smoky mist gathered, sharp with dew.

Farmers had returned home;

This earth dozed.

Yet I sensed

Someone whose eyes held no desire for sleep.

Twenty-Five Years Later

The last time I saw him on the field above—

I said, ‘One day, if you wish to return,

Come back after twenty-five years.’

Saying this, I turned and came home.

Since then, countless moons and stars

Have died in the fields, owls and mice

Searching for rice fields under moonlight

Came and went; eyes closed,

Many fell asleep to the right and left,

While I remained awake alone.

Though time races faster than stars

Hurtling across the sky,

Twenty-five years passed without end!

Then one day—

Yellow grass covered the fields again,

Leaves and dry stalks floated in the mist,

Everywhere, sparrows’ broken nests soaked in dew—

Broken eggshells by the roadside, cold and brittle.

Gourd flowers, a few rotten white gourds,

Torn spiderwebs, dried spiders on vines and leaves.

On a clear moonlit night, paths were recognizable.

A few stars shone in the frosty sky;

Owls and mice roamed the fields, quenching their thirst with grains.

Twenty-five years had slipped away!

Kartik Field’s Moon

Awakening emotions rise in the heart—

Clouds like mountains bring you,

In the middle of the night or at its end,

When you arrive at the edge of the field—oh Moon!

This dead earth released you tonight.

Tattered white clouds fled in fear,

Stars in the sky blazed brightly for a long time.

Then you arrived, oh Moon, at the edge of the field.

What was to happen on this earth has happened;

What once occurred is now lost, faded away.

Yet here you stand again, carrying its essence!

The fields have been tilled all around this earth,

Farmers have plowed and moved on from their crop fields.

Their stories of the soil, their tales of the fields, have ended,

But much remains unsaid—

Do you know? Does this earth know it today?