The Poet as Mouse and Owl: Reflections on a Poem by Jībanānanda Dāś

One day eight years ago

it was heard that they had taken him

to the dissecting room;

yesterday evening it was, in the darkness of the Phalgun night

when the fifth moon sank

his desire was to die.

His wife lay beside him, his child too;

he had love, and hopein the moonlightand then he saw

what spirit? Why did he wake from sleep?

Or perhaps sleep was a long time comingand now he lies

in sleep, in the dissecting room.

Perhaps he wanted this sleep.

Like a plague rat, face smeared with bloody foam,

neck twisted, in a lightless hole he sleeps now;

he will awake no more.

;He will awake no more

the thick pain of awakening

incessantlythe constant burden

he will bear no moreinto unprecedented darkness

as if beside his window

a few silences were come

like a camels neck.