DAUGHTER by K. Satchidanandan

To Sabitha, suffering from Multiple Sclerosis

(Translated from the Malayalam by the poet)

I see my thirty-year old daughter
again as a six-month old.
I bathe her, wash away
the dust and muck
of thirty years.

Now she glistens like
a short Amichai poem
in the liquid glow of Heaven.
The little towel
gets wet with Time.

Beethoven raises his
more than human hands
turning the window-bars
into piano-keys.

My daughter
emerges out of a symphony
to hug me with
her rose-soft hands.

Outside, rain’s bihag:
Kishori Amonkar.

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