I’ve become a wedding-guest
in my own two-room home;
or a son-in-law, visiting
his wife’s family.
The friction gives me a fever;
quinine won’t bring it down;
the salt wind from the invisible world
stings my body.
The sound of distant temple bells
goes sour as it reaches me;
I catch it in the bowl of feelings
and break down.
The machines that run all night
spoil the fruits of darkness;
I taste them and my feverish hate
brings up my bile.
The fringe of lashes on my tired eyes
is the gauze of starlight in the sky;
and yet I don’t dare
go to sleep.
Translated from the Marathi by Vinay Dharwadker