A Mango Tree and a Gold Creeper By Michael Madhusudan Dutt

A Mango Tree and a Gold Creeper

Michael Madhusudan Dutt

 

Says a mango tree to a gold creeper loudly;-

O listen to me, Maiden, curse your creator!

Most unkind is he;

He sheds not a tear of mercy upon you;

He has conceived you in a form so tiny.

Alas, as blows a light wind,

It causes your head to bend,

Thou droop so easily burdened by a bee-hive;

I stand upright like the Himalayas,

King of forest-boughs,

Cleaving the heavens, my head soars up high clouds above!

When the sun grows hotter like a Fire of Hell,-

Have I ever been scared to such a state, O tell?

Leaving their herds of cattle over there,

Cowboys dost come ‘neath my shade near

And take rest for a while,‑

Listen, you hag! It's my royal liability to tend my tenants

From my food-store passersby stop to eat.

Some cook food, oh good

Some others have their nap

Under these kingly feet.

 

The banyan tree, very afraid of me

Always serves me in good loyalty

Here wind entertains my guests with a rare hospitality!

 

World-famed are my fruits, sweet and succulent

Don't you know, you sporting lass?

Behold my mass of branches,

Birds come to make their nests numberless

Atop of my little blocs of houses!

 

I hail my birth in the world so splendid!

But day after day seeing your sorrow makes me dejected;

Condemn your Lord, O sod, curse your creator!"

Such a warring look you wear today!

Bees flock to my flowers for honey

Once gratified, they leave me

Then, should thou feel envy if I am happy?

"Thou art an herb of mean mentality"

Says the Monarch of Forest furiously,

Why dost you need to he moody? Curse on your moon-face beauty!"

The Lord of Forest quiet keep,

And one sees deadly clouds whirling in roars deep

In the dark heavens; then charges the mighty wind,

Of  times roaring like a lion wild,

In the company of monstrous clouds;

As though-Bhima thrust onto the Kuru's War Field

To gobble up what comes to its view.

Riding on Amravati, the chariot holy

Clenching teeth in wild fury,

Sparks of Vajra sends Indra, the god almighty!

Like Bhima, the war commander cracking

The thighbone of Kururaj and killing

So the proud tree receives the death-blow

And falls down on the ground low,

Alas! At the hands of Indra the mighty

And loses his life along with all vanity

In the forest! If thou art higher in honour, status and riches

Yet, thou shan't look down upon your charges

This piece of advice the poet devises.