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B. M. PARSWALE

I

All fair principles are going to be tied to slaughterer’s Peg
Snares of ideals are breathing their last possessing of gold coin of death
Like unsheltered poor cattles from famine
And the darkness is fleeing with hurricane speed
The courts, parliament houses are startling inside
With moving hands on the millions of years� evolution
The utmost peaks of Pratibha are not seeming
I am extinguishing (myself) from all sides with the darkness
My frontal bridge tissues are crashing down having picked up.
If anybody has found the Sun just he may come here.

II

Peoples are going to be throwned from here to there Like carrying of the wood
Their chipping is going on, cutting is going on However they wish
By persons terrible than the vesuvius
The lively treasures of Men only are rooking of (And)
The timid Academics, directors of the Newest Orders
Are accepting the restraints only for luxrious gifts
And the darkness? The darkness is moving on Forward On the (wings) of Future
(which is) Tender, very tender
If anybody has found the Sun just He may come here.

III

The Sparks of words, Fire, Inquilab are outside
The language of New creation
There are many a great Fellows
Who are sewing a strong Form of their own
Due to fright of hitting a stroke to oneself
Fire a bullet at their own caravan
I have seen from the utmost height
Many Big ones accepting the award-titles
And friends! horses are only obstructed here
And the darkness is assaulting
At the nucleus of Humanity with fast speed
I am deceived constantly myself,
On the Screen, on the poster
If anybody has found the Sun just
He may come here.
(Translated from Marathi by V. P. THONTE)