K Satchidanandan (India)

​ 
THE MAD
 
The mad have no caste
nor religion. They transcend
gender, live outside
ideologies. We do not deserve
their innocence.
 
Their language is not of dreams
but of another reality. Their love
is moonlight. It overflows
on the full moon day.
 
Looking up they see
gods we have never heard of. They are
shaking their wings when
we fancy they are
shrugging their shoulders. They hold
even flies have souls
and the green god of grasshoppers
leaps up on thin legs.
 
At times they see trees bleed, hear
lions roaring from the streets. At times
they watch Heaven gleaming
in a kitten’s eyes, just as
we do. But they alone can hear
ants sing in a chorus.
 
While patting the air
they are taming a cyclone
over the Mediterranean. With
their heavy tread, they stop
a volcano from erupting.
 
They have another measure
of time. Our century is
their second. Twenty seconds,
and they reach Christ; six more,
they are with the Buddha.
 
In a single day, they reach
the big bang at the beginning.
 
They go on walking restless for,
their earth is boiling still.
 
The mad are not
mad  like us.
 
1996