The Champa Flower

diterjemahkan Syaiful Bahri, untuk diri sendiri

Sajak Rabindranath Tagore

Diterjemahkan Syaiful Bahri, untuk diri sendiri

Bunga Champa

Seandainya saja aku bunga champa,
ini cuma bercanda: tapi aku lah bunga yang tumbuh
di pucuk pohon tinggi, melambai-lambai di lalu angin,
tertawa dan menari di sana
akankah kau tahu itu aku, ibu?

Kau akan memanggil, “ Sayangku, di mana engkau? “
aku tertawa sendiri tapi tetap diam dan bersembunyi.

Aku akan memekarkan kelopak mahkotaku,
lalu melihat engkau sibuk dengan pekerjaanmu.

Habis mandi, rambutmu terurai basah di bahumu,
kau melangkah di bawah pohon bunga champa,
ke sudut kecil di mana engkau selalu berdoa di sana,
kau nikmati wangi bungaku, yang tak kau tahu dari aku.

Bila makan siang berlalu, kau duduk di jendela membaca
Ramayana, dan teduh bayangan pohon champa jatuh
menyentuh rambut dan pangkuanmu, harus
aku jatuhkan juga bayangan mungilku
di buku itu, di huruf-huruf halaman yang kau baca

apa kau merasa, ibu? Bayangan mungil itu bocah kecilmu?

Lalu bila di malam hari, kau menengok ke kandang sapi,
Di tanganmu lentera menyala, aku harus menjatuhkan
diri ke bumi, menjelma kembali jadi bocah kecilmu,
dan meminta engkau mendongeng atau bercerita.

“Dari mana saja kau, anak nakal? “

“ hm, tak akan kuberi tahu, kau, ibu.” begitulah.
Tapi kelak aku akan bercerita padamu




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.