Nobody introduced the alphabet to me,
nobody taught me to read;
in this cemetery by the sea
so many days went spinning by.
The evening’s flock of birds are enclosed in a blue book jacket
the unsmelled book’s pages are opened every day.
Roaming around, I learn—
Leslie Louis’s, Robert Louis’s weeping—
Paul Louis, born 1867—died 1870
‘Child, your soul is a shining white flower
may it blossom for ever in heaven’s garden.’
Thus I hear aspirates.
‘For Agatha at seventeen
my sky remained incomplete,
the wind had no flow, life was lacking,’
wrote Willy Sandhurst at twenty-three.
I learned long vowels by this method.
‘Eighty-three-year old Mariam, my mother,
to you I pour out whatever I have
of virtue, of truth, of light
on this writing table of white stone:
may your temple stand’
—the poet Augustus’s dedication.
Gradually I understand semi-vowels.
I go to the tomb—
I see the alphabet’s mouth seize the stone fruit
the alphabet’s soul blossoms
there are no pictures, no books.
Formless clouds make background shadow
birds come and perch on the endless causeway’s breast.
I pull and tear so much of the sky’s blue
the tender dawn, dyed like startled wisdom
shock nearly blind eyes.
Nobody ever taught me to read
nobody ever introduced the alphabet to me
roaming around alone
I read and write in this solitary tomb.
Translated from the Bangla by Marian Maddern