Syair Rabindranath Tagore
Katakan saja aku menjelma jadi bunga champa,
ini sekadar kelakar, tapi akulah bunga yang tumbuh
di dahan pohon tinggi, berayun lambai di lalu angin,
tertawa dan menari di atas pucuk-pucuk daunan,
tahukah kau adalah itu aku, ibu?
Kau akan berseru, "Sayangku, dimana kau, anakku?"
Aha, aku tergelak sendiri tapi tetap diam sembunyi.
Aku akan memekarkan mahkotaku, perlahan tersipu,
dan menyaksikan engkau, ibu, sibuk dengan kerjamu.
Usai mandi, rambutmu basah terurai di bahumu,
kau melangkah di bawah bayang pohon champa,
ke sudut halaman di mana kau lafalkan doa-doa,
kau nikmati aroma bunga, wangiku yang tak kau tahu.
Lalu setelah makan tengah hari berlalu, kau duduk
di jendela membaca Ramayana, dan tedung bayang
pohon menyentuh rambut dan pangkuanmu, musti
kujatuhkan juga mungil bayanganku di halaman
bukumu, pada huruf-huruf halaman yang kau baca.
Kau duga, ibu? Bayang kecil itu bocah cilikmu?
Lalu di malam hari, kau menengok kandang sapi,
di tanganmu nyala lentera, aku tiba-tiba menjatuhkan
diri ke bumi, dan menjelma kembali bocah kecilmu,
dan memohon engkau mendongengkan cerita.
"Dari mana saja, kau anak nakal?"
"Aha, tak akan kuberi tahu, ibu." Begitulah kataku
dan begitulah juga katamu, kelak kemudian, kan?
* Syair ke-15 dari rangkaian 40 Syair The Crescent Moon.
THE CHAMPA FLOWER
Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and
grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with
laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know
me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you
walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the
little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the
scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and
your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of
your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little
child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again
and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.
