(Translated from the Marathi by Mustansir Dalvi)
Flowers turn brutish,
trees turn brutish,
language turns brutish,
poetry turns brutish.
Poets have stopped
writing in their own language
and have, instead, begun
grinding it down into finer and finer grain.
Instead of every twelve leagues, now
languages change completely
every twelve years.
Which means, after thirty-six years
no language can remain our own.
For instance, the language I spoke
as a child, thirty-six years ago
no longer evokes affinity.
Which means you can’t fucking expect these dodderers
to appreciate the poetry we write today, can you?
you have taken an entire language
and chewed it down to a cud.
We will consume an entire language all by ourselves.
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