Breasts are bubbles, rising
in wet marshlands.
I watched in awe—and guarded—
their gradual swell and blooming
at the edges of my season of youth.
Saying nothing to anyone else,
they sing along
with me alone, always—of
love,
rapture,
heartbreak
To the nurseries of my turning seasons,
they never once forgot or failed
to bring arousal.
In penance, they swell, as if straining
to break free; and in the fierce tug of lust,
they rise with the harmony of music.
From the crush of embrace, they distill
the essence of love; and in the tremor
of childbirth, milk from coursing blood.
Like two teardrops from an unfulfilled love
that cannot ever be wiped away,
they well up, as if in grief, and spill over.
Translated from the Tamil by N. Kalyan Raman