TRANSLATED POEM "THIS IS MY SMALL VILLAGE."

 

THIS IS MY SMALL VILLAGE.

This is my small village,

Though we don't find Her name in print,

In a Geography book or in any old script,

Albeit she is far from any global knowledge.

Oh! This is my small village;

Made up of the common mud and clay

Where exists the goddess of my Birth’s Sixth Day

And, where will end my life’s last pilgrimage!

 

Oh! This is my small village;

The cradle to my birth’s Sixth Day chamber

The abode to many groves where roamed I in childhood days

And where will burn my last rite’s fire!

 

Oh! This is my small village;

Whose water runs in my veins like a lively river

I still breathe in and breathe out whose pure air

And what’s so inevitable for my life’s cruise!

 

Oh! This is my small village;

Whose flowers and creepers gifted me the knowledge

And prompted me to stammer and to gradually speak

And whose vernal dawns taught my eyes a new look!

 

Oh! This is my small village;

Whose woods, shrubs, bushes and knotty climbers

Whose cowherd’s flute’s music melodious

Whose reapers’ songs are to me a beacon’s rays!!

 

Oh! This is my small village;

How charming is Her day light!

Her dark nights pour more delight.

Her company is to me a big privilege!

 

Oh! This is my small village;

All the experiences linked with Her now gleam like an image;

Still today, my nostalgic and grateful mind gets brightened

And longs to bow down on Her Soil hallowed and enlightened!

 

N. B.: The above poem is the English version of an Odia poem, "CHHOTA MORA GAANTI" written by Sacchidanda Routray.

Copyright: Dr Shankar D Mishra, Bhubaneswar, Odisha, India 15.03.2023