Yes
if only one can move about
evidence of life in you or me.

In this country
all rivers
flow into eyes of women.
Entire bush fire
enters labourers’ entrails.

Jungles too surge
with waves of movements.
Here–
water gushes
fire too surges,
except man.
River of cities
heaves with waves of feet.
Every where pairs of feet
walking along , wrapping like a vine.
Blossms of vision bloom not
on their eyes of branches .
Smiles dance not
on lips of tender shoots.
Even the issuing ‘heart’ fruit,
a blasted fruit–
never ripens .
Mother earth’s tenderness
as known to the tree
is unknown to even water.
As the earth turns fallow
a tree withers with sympathy.
If it enters into a banter
with fecund feelings ,
touched turns green all along
with fruit and flowers.
A tree knows sky’s spirit.
As frolicsome drops of rain descend
with swaying heads of twigs
it shares ecstasy.
If the same sky trundles
cowering in fear
embraces earth
like a child sliding into mother’s lap.
A tree knows pulse of wafting breeze.
Extending fragrance
to the breeze that calls on,
providing palliative to the worldly worries
posts it as a Prophet.
Galore of feet here—
Dynamic feet of the new born in hospitals,
cold feet sans mobility in cemetery.
Feet of a farm hand
though paired with progressing crop
yield not rewards in return.
Feet of a labourer
though entrenched in a factory as a machine
reach not a mouth as a ball of rice.
In a land proclaiming
honour of a lady
even today
there are feet with clinking anklets
struggling for a square meal on dirty, dusty roads.
Come, let’s worship these feet!
They too should move gracefully!
But, the original objective of this run
goals to be identified .
Distance covered has to be recorded,
destination certainly has to be decided.
Otherwise—
in an upheaval
feet turn into mere rolling rocks.
If one forges ahead
then only survival—
for you or me!

Original: Sikhamani (Telugu)
Translation: Dr T.S.Chandra Mouli & B.B.Sarojini