The hours spent in waiting
Did not rot, wither, and go to waste.
The number of candles
Upon the birthday table
Did not increase on their own accord.
The bumblebee did not lose its way intentionally,
Nor did the flowers in the garden change
With the turning cycle of seasons.
These poems would never have overflowed like this
Into the pages of the diary;
The fugitive, runaway words
Would never have submitted or obeyed.
The deadly venom would never have transformed
Into sweet nectar.
Never had the bud of a rose withered away
In the intoxicating fragrance of night-flowering jasmine (Gangasiuli).
Even after the distant birds flew back,
The nest did not fall into disarray.
Abhimanyu, too, returned
From the depths of the Chakravyuh.
Yayati, detaching himself from desires by his own will,
Returned the borrowed youth.
Even when rivers lost their way
And failed to merge into the sea,
The ocean’s loving waves never diminished.
Even after the footprints on the quicksand
Were completely erased,
The path remained visible.
Look, only because you had said so,
Even spring has not deserted the courtyard.
If promises are forgotten,
Who here is truly known, and who is a stranger?
— Ratnamaya Tripathy
Adhyayana, Balangir
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Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy
Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy
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