And  every  year
the  Ghaghra  changes  course
turning  over  and  over  in  her  sleep.
In  the  afternoon  she  is  a  grey  smudge  
exploring  a  grey  canvas.
When  dusk  reaches   her 
through  an  overhang  of  cloud  
she  is  overstewed  coffee. 
At  night  she  is  a  red  weal  
across  the  spine  of  the  land.
Driving  at  dusk   you  wouldn't  know 
 there's  a  flood  ‘on ', 
the  landscape  is  so  superbly  equipoised- 
rice-shoots  pricking  through 
a  stretch  of  water  and  light 
spiked  shadows  
                                        inverted  trees  
                                                       kingfishers, gulls. 
                          As  twilight  thins 
               the  road  is   a  black  stretch  
running  between  the  stars. 
And  suddenly  at  night 
the  north  comes  to  the  village  
riding  on  river-back. 
Twenty  minutes  of  a  nightmare  spin  
and  fear  turns  phantasmal  
as  half  a  street   goes  
churning  in  the  river-belly. 
If  only  voices  could  light  lamps! 
If  only  limbs  could  turn  to  rafted  bamboo! 
And  through  the  village  
the  Ghaghra  steers  her  course; 
thatch  and  dung-cakes  turn  to  river-scum, 
a  buffalo  floats  over  to  the  rooftop  
where  the  men  are  stranded. 
Three  days  of  hunger,  and  her  udders  
turn  red-rimmed  and  swollen  
                              with  milk-extortion.
Children  have  spirit  enough  in  them 
to  cheer  the  rescue  boats; 
the  men  are  still-life  subjects  
                         oozing  wet  looks. 
They  don't  rave  or  curse 
for  they  know  the  river's  slang, her  argot. 
No  one  sends  up  prayers  to  a  wasted  sky, 
for  prayers  are  parabolic  
they  will  come  down  with  a  flop  anyway. 
Instead  there's  a  slush-stampede  
outside  the  booth  
where  they  are  doling  out  salt  and  grain.
Ten  miles  to  her  flank   
peasants  go  fishing  in  rice  fields  
and  women  in  chauffeur-driven  cars  
go  looking  for  driftwood. 
But  it's  when  she  recedes  
that  the  Ghaghra  turns  bitchy  
sucking  with  animal-heat, 
cross-eddies  diving  like  frogmen  
and  sawing  away  the  waterfront  
in  a  paranoid  frenzy.
 She  flees  from  the  scene  of  her  own  havoc 
thrashing  with  pain. 
Behind  her  the  land  sinks 
houses  sag  on  to  their  knees 
in  a  farewell  obeisance.  
And  miles  to  the  flank, the  paddy  fields  
will  hoard  the   fish  
till  the  mud  enters  into 
a  conspiracy  with  the  sun  
                                 and  strangles  them.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                     
                
It is really a great poem! The scene of flood ravaged village has been delineated in the most expressive way!