The Weeping Gods of Manipur

Hijam Monarsingh Dallo Rihmo
If I were to die, don’t burn me,
Give me a proper fire burial,
And my ashes, scatter them,
In the turbulent waters of Irang,

Or the snaking flows of Iril,
And in my second burial,
Take my remains to Sugnu,
The confluence of Chakpi and Imphal,

Make me a mound,
Bury me there on the banks,
So the deities can see,
With their searching eyes,

From the hills of Chandel and Phiral,
Then, shall my soul in peace,
Make the coo-ing sounds,
Like the ones in stories,

Along with the spirits,
Forever becoming whispers,
Voices trapped in crystals and stones.
Among the hills and valleys,

Between the blind pine trees,
And their humming,
With no one to care,
Innocence so red,

It’s beautiful and sacred,
And my cries, they become,
The shimmering tales of Manipur,
Along with the spirits,

From the hills I’ll see,
My rape and desecration,
And along with the pine trees,
I’ll hum when the winds they blow,
To forget and erase,

The pain and memories,
And when my eyes they can take no more,
I’ll tell the blind pine trees my tales,
And gouge my own eyes,

To be together with them,
For it is too much,
For my little Manipuri heart and soul,
Silent and cold, the hills they watch,

And my tales, the God’s they weep,
And from their hearts its springs,
Lilies and orchids.