It is not time that flies.
It is men, all creatures
everywhere.
The cloud in brown coat flies away
waving goodbye to my father
as he sits like a portrait,
his head propped against the wall
of the front verandah of our house.
Next day, his back towards us,
father flies away and sinks
below the horizon
along with the setting sun.
Leaves fall
waving goodbye to the weeping tree.
And then the woodcutters come and fell the tree
and it waves goodbye
to the ancient soil on which it stood.
Suddenly one sees
houses, rivers, forests, paddy fields
swamps, wife and children, friends, relatives
the endless images, crafted by time:
everything rushing forward
into the darkness.
That darkness
is your only shadow.
Surely you should know
why we fly away, helpless,
and where.
Translated from the Oriya by the poet