Man By Nirmalendu Goon

Man

Nirmalendu Goon

 

I am not a man; perhaps, men are differnet.

They can walk, sit and move

from this room to that.

Men are different, they run when snake bites.

I am not a man; perhaps, I stand still all day,

I stand still like trees.

 

I can't feel when a snake bites,

I don't sing a song after the movie

and I've forgotten taking ice-cold water.

Still I'am alive and painting pictures,

wandering all morning and noon

living all day in my own way.

And it surprises me.

 

I am not a man, if I were a man, perhaps

I would have shoes, home and shelter.

A woman would give me warmth at night;

She would portray the black-baby of mine

in the canvas of her womb.

 

I am not a man, perhaps.

If I were a man,

why would I laugh at the sight of sky?

Men are different, they have hands, noses,

and those splendid eyes‑

two nickel-polished eyes like yours.

If they promised to love,

they would keep the promise.

 

If I were a man, I would have a spot on my thigh;

there would be signs of loving rage in the eyes.

 

If I were a man, I would have father, sister, lover;

I would have the fear of sudden death.

I am not a man, if I were

I could perhaps compose no more poems for you,

nor could I pass the whole night without you.

 

Men run away when bitten by snakes.

But I don't .

I go ahead and give them a close embrace,

only mistaking them for men.