tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588492764339631722024-03-14T03:06:10.175-07:00REFLECTIONSREFLECTIONS OF CONTEMPORARY BLOG POEMS IN MALAYALAMdevasenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05998638204409950150noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-86425285989070570712008-12-10T09:17:00.000-08:002009-01-04T09:04:21.844-08:00AS A METAPHOR -SebastianTransilation of <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sebastians</span></span> poem<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span><span style="font-size:130%;">'<span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">രൂപകമെന്ന നിലയില്</span> <span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span></span></span>' (ഒട്ടിച്ച നോട്ട് )'<br /></span><a href="http://gangapunarjani.blogspot.com/2008/12/blog-post_10.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">(Read this poem in malayalam)</span></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">P</span>eople are there<br />go out sometimes<br />leaving behind<br />some organs at home<br />to job,to travel<br />pass time or visits<br />without brooding over<br />handicap unexposed<br /><br />There at home<br />eyes,ears,limbs and fingers<br />and heart even<br />though alone<br />smile never<br />at each other .<br /><br />People are there<br />after return<br />somehow or other<br />wear them not proper<br />forced to forget<br />yet organ another<br />leave their home<br />next time again .<br /><br />Some people thus<br />fully organ less<br />uncaring and forgetting<br />again and again<br />brooding not<br />they still go out<br />always unrevealed<br />leaving behind<br />the organs remaining.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Transilation-Jyothibai pariyadath</span>ജ്യോതീബായ് പരിയാടത്ത്/JYOTHIBAI PARIYADATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673839882771364003noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-62674096782244914722008-12-01T04:15:00.000-08:002008-12-01T09:16:56.727-08:00DELINEATION TRANSPARENT - Sebastian<style>body {margin:8px} .tr-field {font:normal x-small arial}</style>Transilation of <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sebastians</span></span> poem<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span><span style="font-size:130%;">'സുതാര്യമായ വര്ണ്ണന</span>' (ഒട്ടിച്ച നോട്ട് )'<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://gangapunarjani.blogspot.com/2008/12/blog-post.html">(Read this poem in malayalam)</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">W</span></span>hat gripped hopefully<br />was neither fruit nor berry<br />not matter ,a beast or body<br />odourless it was<br />no warmth,coolness or numbness,<br />still not lifeless<br /><br />An urge<br />to grow in a cage<br />without giving away,<br />may identify someday.<br /><br />The next day<br />lay in the cage<br />in an army of flies huge<br />decomposed, decayed,<br />The Pride<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Transilation-Jyothibai pariyadath</span>ജ്യോതീബായ് പരിയാടത്ത്/JYOTHIBAI PARIYADATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673839882771364003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-39200138462934989392008-10-16T05:01:00.000-07:002008-10-22T09:27:17.106-07:00Post Script to an accidentA narrow pencil<br />On your colorful walls<br />Sketching lines<br />Not so correct, direct or sharp<br /><br />You lived and<br />Died like a butterfly<br />Pinned to a white board<br /><br />My eyes burned<br />Seeing your daughter<br />Drawing on the wall<br />You must have restricted<br /><br />A pencil intruding your<br />Perimeters<br />Even before you are some<br />Smoke or ash<br /><br />Last midnight<br />A hump on the road<br />Corrected many restraints<br />*Junaith Rahman | ജുനൈദ്http://www.blogger.com/profile/10003845079971525225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-45653789722263649512008-10-11T07:11:00.000-07:002008-10-22T09:26:12.870-07:00Herald of Absences<em>For Dom Moraes<br /></em><br /><br /><br />I saw him sitting on a whale<br />Herald of absences<br /><br />Wearing the mask of an old man<br />The boy<br />Typed his life with one finger<br /><br />I met him last on a sea shore<br />Surrounded by crabs<br />Writing<br />The length of his eveningJunaith Rahman | ജുനൈദ്http://www.blogger.com/profile/10003845079971525225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-46400209012874984592008-02-03T05:50:00.000-08:002008-02-03T06:08:51.683-08:00algebra|വഴിക്കണക്ക്വല്യമ്മായിയുടെ <a href="http://rehnaliyu.blogspot.com/2007/05/blog-post_17.html">വഴിക്കണക്ക്</a>എന്ന കവിത<br /><br />The last arithmetical problem in examination<br /><br />I've added,<br />substracted,<br />divided,<br />and multiplied<br />again and again...<br /><br />I kept the numbers outside<br />and took them back<br />I borrowed them from outside,<br />and gave them back<br /><br />I jumped hurdles<br />one after the other<br />and when the final bell rang<br />in the midst of last division<br />only one question remained<br /><br />balance?simy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-34476599446189531472008-01-07T08:57:00.000-08:002008-12-01T09:12:58.363-08:00Unending.. (തീരുന്നേയില്ല.... )പി.ജ്യോതിയുടെ <a href="http://jyothiss.blogspot.com/2007/12/blog-post_15.html">തീരുന്നേയില്ല </a>എന്ന കവിത<br /><br />Among the shadows<br />A soul<br />searches<br />a body.<br /><br />Elongated<br />in the sun rays<br />the edges<br />of the shadows seemed<br />battered<br />and<br />the signs<br />erased.<br /><br />Fearing<br />the redeath,<br />the body<br />still hid<br />beneath<br />the shadow's shadow.<br /><br />The soul<br />searches<br />the bodyജ്യോതീബായ് പരിയാടത്ത്/JYOTHIBAI PARIYADATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673839882771364003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-1154356798980636062007-12-15T02:30:00.000-08:002007-12-15T23:19:54.427-08:00FROCK-SARI-AMMA | ഫ്രോക്ക് - സാരി - അമ്മ<a href="http://devamazha.blogspot.com/2007/08/blog-post_29.html">Translated from FROCK-SARI-AMMAഫ്രോക്ക് സാരി അമ്മ</a><br /><br />when her daughter attained twelve<br />and all the beauties on the earth<br />started to dwell on her body<br />mother' s heart burned<br /><br />Fearing even to bash an eyelid<br />thinking of the tragedies<br />in between the lips and cup<br />she stood for the guardian angel.<br /><br />Entrusted the god to take care<br />from the stripping eyes<br />in between the school bus and the gate<br /><br />Ensured in the bed<br />by searching through the blanket<br />that her daughter has not been stolen<br /><br />Pulled an emergency on her way<br />to the neighbor's house<br />screaming "oh buddy"<br />as a seven year old boy is growing there!<br /><br />In one midnight<br />her scream woke up the neighborhood<br />worried of her missing daughter<br />she fainted in the midnight<br /><br />The neighborhoods solved the problem<br />by dropping her daughter on her shoulder<br />who slept off at the classroom<br />after a tireful French test.<br /><br />The thoughts of the future<br />that her daughter will grow<br />from a frock to sari<br />in to a world of seminal climax<br />on every bus and lamp post<br />on the sight of every feminine shadow<br />And her shrunken womb that<br />was not enough to fit her daughter<br />further reddened the fire in her heart<br /><br />Author : ദേവസേനsimy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-67180577866807182322007-11-19T05:46:00.000-08:002007-11-20T03:11:01.985-08:00Being and Nothingness | ഉള്ളതും ഇല്ലാത്തതും<strong>(Translated from Shri Vishnuprasad's poem </strong><a href="http://prathibhasha.blogspot.com/2007/09/blog-post_3792.html"><strong>ULLATHUM ILLATTHATHUM ഉള്ളതും ഇല്ലാത്തതും</strong></a><strong>)<br /></strong><br />I saw children,<br />pretending to be ghosts,<br />trying to scare away a cat.<br /><br />May be they think<br />that the dead are<br />more powerful than the living.<br />If not ,<br />how could they<br />march against an enemy<br />they are afraid of?<br /><br />They should be right;<br />Things that are not<br />are more powerful than<br />those that are.<br /><br />Dreams that are not,<br />grandeur that is not,<br />so on,<br />those abode on non entity<br />are more alive<br />than the living<br /><br />The flight<br />of a bird that is not<br />the stature<br />of a tree that is not<br />the stare<br />of a man who is not<br />the clamour<br />of voices that are not<br /><br />No,<br />Things that are<br />will never stand against<br />things that are not;<br />things that are<br />are afraid of<br />things that are not.<br /><br /><span style="color:#000066;">Trans. പരി. : Manu മനു</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-80463393992172356222007-11-16T21:33:00.000-08:002007-11-16T21:38:16.305-08:00GOD OF BOREDOM | ബോറടിയുടെ ദൈവംടി.പി.വിനോദിന്റെ <a href="http://lapuda.blogspot.com/2006/11/blog-post.html">GOD OF BOREDOM ബോറടിയുടെ ദൈവം</a> എന്ന കവിത<br />If identified<br />in the language of time,<br />life is an epic of boredom<br /><br />If conceived<br />in the renowned tunes of stillness,<br />ideas are chantings of Boredom<br /><br />If not of the<br />universal miracles of boredom,<br />whose meanings are constructed by<br />statues and flags?<br /><br />Even though<br />it is ubiquitous in<br />time, space and motion<br />why don't we have a god for boredom?<br /><br />at least to partisan by blessing that<br />those among you feeling me, have a dream !<br /><br />Author : T.P.Vinod<br /><br />Translator : SanathananUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-86672508991829343762007-11-13T21:40:00.000-08:002007-11-13T21:49:15.450-08:00പതിവ്|Routine<a href="http://lapuda.blogspot.com/2007/08/blog-post.html">ടി.പി.വിനോദിന്റെ പതിവ്Routine എന്ന കവിത</a><br /><br />From the piece of the rock,<br />on the wayside I walk,<br />its elaborate inertia<br />creeps into thoughts<br />and it moves with my feet,<br />throughout the distance I reach.<br /><br />Perhaps,<br />with all of its mass<br />resting in firm,<br />it represses my mind,<br />from flying in the wind.<br /><br />The mosses of memories<br />does not obey my commands ;<br />not to tickle the feelings<br />touching and nibbling<br />it inside my heart.<br /><br />On my way back to home<br />When I reach the same place,<br />it gets out of me,<br />And waits all the night<br />with its inertia,<br />grown one more day old.<br /><br />On the piece of the rock,<br />on the wayside I walk.<br /><br />Author : T.P.Vinod<br />Translator : SanathananUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-6134723189694968352007-11-12T03:21:00.000-08:002007-11-12T03:27:34.556-08:00താഴോട്ടു നോക്കി നടക്കണം | Look down while you walkവിഷ്ണുപ്രസാദിന്റെ താഴോട്ടുനോക്കി നടക്കണം എന്ന കവിത<br />One should walk,<br />looking down to the street<br />Then only he could see<br />half burned matches,<br />crushed cigarette buds,<br />ashen sweet wrappers<br />And the lottery tickets<br />of the unlucky ,<br />under his feet.<br /><br />One should walk<br />looking down to the street<br />Then only he could hear<br />the remindings of the street<br />that this earth<br />is the churchyard<br />of the dumped<br /><br />Author : Vishnuprasad<br />Translated by : sanathananUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-79655433517198659632007-11-07T06:37:00.000-08:002007-11-17T02:10:48.489-08:00ഈ ദൈവത്തിന്റെ ഒരു കാര്യം | Fed up with the Godകുഴൂര് വിത്സണ് എഴുതിയ <a href="http://boolokakavitha.blogspot.com/2007/11/blog-post_06.html">ഈ ദൈവത്തിന്റെ ഒരു കാര്യം</a> എന്ന കവിത<br />-------------------------------<br /><br />in our next lives, we met<br />in a dusty street in Cabul.<br /><br />And a t-shirt strolled,<br />with the words imprinted<br />that the lovers in this birth<br />were two warring clans, from birth before.<br /><br />And I realized<br />that your longing gaze<br />was that same burning bullet<br />of hatred and vengeance<br />which was still left loaded<br />after you shot through me six times.<br /><br />While you realized<br />that my words were, nothing but<br />the cozy comfort of slicing<br />and dicing on a body which<br />lost its life, long ago.<br /><br />But still I dont know<br />why you offered me boiled corns<br />when you saw them selling on cabul streets.<br />and why you dallied when I heaved a sigh.<br /><br />I dont know.<br /><br />And then you asked<br />on how we parted.<br />First it was 'cos the fire blazed high<br />when I lit up the candle.<br />Then it was for the phone rang<br />while we kissed.<br />And then, for that lipstick in my shirt<br />when I came in your dream.<br />.........<br />.........<br />And then, for asking<br />and for not asking<br />for a phone call, for not calling<br />for a sigh,<br />a smile, a whimper<br />for a tear, for eating and for not eating<br />for posting a letter, for wishing not to post<br />and for going to the urinal -<br />without your permission.<br /><br />For praying for the mother and kids -<br /><br />we may have died together<br /><br />If I died first - I was worried<br />of not who would look after you<br />but who all would look after you<br /><br />We may have been killed<br />If not, god's would have interfered anyway<br />In whichever rock you build, god will<br />topple it, even with an earth quake<br /><br />These crazy ways of god, so strange.<br /><br />And we, those who sliced each other with love<br />in these streets of cabul<br /><br />When you said how beautiful this city is,<br />how wonderful - I smoked a cigarette.<br /><br />And here, another T-shirt passes<br />with the words - that I'm not even born<br /><br />And I remember<br />those two lines you uttered<br />to me on that thursday evening (5.41pm)<br />four days before chirstmas<br />in our previous birth<br /><br />I smiled, without uttering them<br /><br />and you kissed me<br /><br /><br />Translated by : simysimy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-55300884333775339242007-11-06T06:55:00.000-08:002007-11-08T01:13:07.975-08:00അടിയന്തിരാവസ്ഥ നഷ്ടപ്പെടുത്തിയ എന്റെ ആറു വര്ഷങ്ങള് | My six years eaten by emergencyകെ.എം.പ്രമോദ് എഴുതിയ <a href="http://pramaadam.blogspot.com/2007/04/blog-post_21.html">അടിയന്തിരാവസ്ഥ നഷ്ടപ്പെടുത്തിയ എന്റെ ആറു വര്ഷങ്ങള്</a> എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ<br />My six years eaten by emergency.<br />-------------------------------<br /><br />A dream, named revolution<br />A magazine, named comrade<br />An agent, named Pappan,<br />and his marriage with Sarada<br /><br />Sister Indira is in her mood<br />Karunakaran is blowing hot<br />Jayaram Padikkal (is on the steps)<br />And Pappan<br />He left home for the woods<br />only to come back in lonely nights<br />and to be betrayed by Gandhi Kunhiraman<br /><br />And lo, a load full of police<br />just to catch pappan<br />A vomit screams through misty night<br />soaked with Pappan's blood<br />Pappan's ball becomes<br />a toy for the police<br /><br />To home, from Jail.<br />Sarada's next six years<br />are for flowers and worship<br />Pappan's money is<br />only for the treatment<br />And I catch the last bus<br />to come to light!, from Sarada's womb.<br /><br />And thus,<br />Pappan became my father<br />President of temple commitee<br />he worships, covers gods with flowers<br /><br />And In my eyes shine -<br />a dream called revolution<br />And in my hands, a pen.<br />And all I see, is a poem.<br /><br />And then, my father looks at me,<br />like a poem, came to sudden life*.<br /><br />---------------<br /><br />*Son, you would think more than this when you are young,<br />only to calm down, once you grow as old as me. <br />(Balachandran Chullikkaad, Laugh of a labourer).simy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-58036303637820912922007-11-06T05:46:00.000-08:002007-11-07T05:01:44.721-08:00Kunjaakkamma* | കുഞ്ഞാക്കമ്മ*<strong>(Transl. from <a href="http://pramaadam.blogspot.com/2007/06/blog-post.html">the original</a> by the author - K M Pramod)</strong><br /><br />Unlike Kunjaakkamma,<br />The thatched huts of Kandakkai<br />Shivered in the Wind and<br />Cried in the Rain.<br /><br />When sought to fill the Holes in their Roofs<br />with Grass of the Land, before Monsoon<br />they were called "Bastards" by the Landlord.<br /><br />Thus the Men and Women<br />Entered in the useless Grassland of that Bastard<br />for the Grass.<br />Police Reaped the pubic hair of Males,<br />Pots in the kitchen were Shattered by their Canes.<br /><br />And the Shattered pots United,<br />Kunjaakkamma Led.<br /><br />Chirukandan Cried "Oh mother! Fish Curry"<br />Smelling the Red stain in the Pieces of Broken pots.<br /><br />First Strike of their Fist was on their Chest,<br />Then towards the Sky.<br /><br />Kunjaakkamma returned from Jail,Like a Broken pot.<br /><br />But,<br />A whole village wove a Dream net of Fish Curry<br />by smelling Red.<br /><br /><br />************<br /><br /><strong>Author's Note :<br />* Dedicated to the Evrgreen Memory of 'Kunjaakkamma' who led historical strikes during 1950's like 'Picking grass Strike', 'Reaping Strike' and 'Carrying Shattered pots Strikes' in Kandakkai, a Small village in Kannur,Kerala. </strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff66;">(കെ എം പ്രമോദിന്റെ <a href="http://pramaadam.blogspot.com/2007/06/blog-post.html">കുഞ്ഞാക്കമ്മ</a>; പ്രമോദ് തന്നെ ഭാഷാന്തരം ചെയ്തത്.) </span></strong>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-83043164198629704322007-11-06T01:06:00.000-08:002007-11-07T05:32:02.118-08:00Feathery seed | അപ്പൂപ്പന് താടിസനാതനന് എഴുതിയ <a href="http://sanathanan.blogspot.com/2007/09/blog-post_13.html">അപ്പൂപ്പന്താടി</a> എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ<br /><br />Mother should have known my future<br />While delivering me,<br /><br />That in this earth, <br />Where the roots of trees weave mighty nets,<br />an ounce of land, it's hard for me.<br />And maybe that's why, she gave<br />to this miniscule body,<br />an abundance of wings.<br /><br />I'm flying away,<br />across the lands;<br />past the oceans<br />through the ages<br />that hold our memories<br />and make them rain<br /><br />Fly around,<br />through a breeze,<br />across the tempests<br />till the skys are there<br />and till the land<br />would kiss your feet!<br />And that was my mother's blessing.<br /><br />-------------simy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-48266708927788898062007-11-05T13:38:00.000-08:002007-11-07T05:10:07.422-08:00Heart wood | കാതല്<strong>(സനാതനന് എഴുതിയ കാതല് എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ)</strong><br /><br />The core,<br />It's been inside for sometime;<br />A surge from my inside.<br />A force, a strength<br />which can bend even nails<br /><br />And I can't feel anymore<br />those moist rays from the wet eyes<br />when they touch me, like before.<br /><br />And the narrow streams of blood<br />cant angle to my heart anymore<br /><br />Now, I dont see those cookoos<br />when they mate in the branches<br />and I dont see those kites<br />when they interwine<br /><br />Earlier, though I withered<br />In even the mellowed sunshine<br />I always knew first<br />When the spring came<br /><br />And yes, its been there for sometime.<br />A heave.<br />From inside to out.<br /><br />Like an ocean, turned cast iron.<br />Like a dream, turned rock.<br /><br />Earlier, though I stooped,<br />when someone leaned on me<br />I used to know,<br />the warmth of love in my shoulders<br /><br />Now, all that I know is -<br />that there is something inside me.<br /><br />A strength,<br />A force.<br /><br />And I heard someone say<br />let him go on a bit more,<br />let him grow up a bit more<br /><br />Translation : Simysimy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-12505284166137083252007-11-05T13:37:00.000-08:002007-11-07T05:05:30.571-08:00Scientist | ശാസ്ത്രജ്ഞന്<strong>(സനാതനന് എഴുതിയ <a href="http://sanathanan.blogspot.com/2007/09/blog-post_11.html">ശാസ്ത്രജ്ഞന്</a> എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ)</strong><br /><br /><br />Woman,<br />I first thought you were my mother.<br /><br />And I thought<br />you were my nanny<br />who tricked me from my fathers bedroom<br />in the pretext of stories<br />when she knew<br />what I felt for mother<br />was not what mother felt for father.<br /><br />Then I felt<br />you were my ally from the next alley<br />when I knew nanny wouldnt play with me in mud,<br />no matter how much I compelled her.<br /><br />And I thought<br />you were that sex condensed in my fingertip<br />when I knew<br />marriage mattered more to juliet<br />than romeo<br /><br />Then I felt<br />you were my wife whom, I worshiped<br />to the freedom of a locked bedroom<br />when the flags of revolution were<br />lowered from my thoughts<br /><br />and then, in my quest for knowing you;<br />in my heroisms - you gave birth<br /><br />woman,<br />my fate became<br />that of the one who tasted cianide -<br />just to know it's taste.simy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258849276433963172.post-27974287131011687342007-11-05T04:41:00.000-08:002007-11-07T05:04:30.941-08:00Thirty Years | മുപ്പതുവര്ഷങ്ങള്(സനാതനന് എഴുതിയ <a href="http://sanathanan.blogspot.com/2007/07/blog-post_20.html">മുപ്പതുവര്ഷങ്ങള്</a> എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ)<br /><br />Thirty years.<br />Is that the name<br />of a river?<br />Of whose origin I cant find,<br />no matter how far I raft.<br />Of the one that<br />does not fall into the ocean,<br />no matter how far it swam.<br />Of the one that<br />makes its presence,<br />though it doesnt exist.<br />Of the one that doesnt exist,<br />even if it is there.<br />Of a wet dream?<br /><br />Thirty years;<br />Is that the name<br />of a boat?<br />Of the one that floats always,<br />even in the deepest currents,<br />For its inside is hollow.<br />Of the one whose fate is to be afloat,<br />even in the darkest currents.<br />Of the one who wants<br />to turn upside down,<br />And lament a heart broken cry.<br />Of a vanity?<br /><br />Thirty years;<br />Is that the name<br />of a tree?<br />Of the one which doesn't know<br />the branches, the leaves<br />and the buds it bears.<br />Of the one which clenches,<br />with its tearful roots,<br />to the sands that drain away.<br />Of a rheumatism?<br /><br />Thirty years;anyway,<br />Would that be the name of a life?<br />Of a street fight,<br />which started because it was born;<br />and continued because it didnt die?<br /><br />Thirty years - oh god,<br />What rabits are they!<br />Of which magicians hat?<br /><br /><br /><br />Translated by:<a href="http://simynazareth.blogspot.com/">simy<br /></a>Original work: <a href="http://sanathanan.blogspot.com/2007/07/blog-post_20.html">മുപ്പതുവര്ഷങ്ങള്</a>simy nazarethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11292298558747687520noreply@blogger.com0