Syair Rabindranath Tagore
Katamu, ayah menulis banyak sekali buku,
tapi apa yang ditulisnya, tak mengerti aku.
Untukmu, sepanjang malam ayah membaca,
tapi mengertikah kau apa makna yang ia baca?
Betapa menariknya ceritamu untuk kami, ibu,
kenapa Ayah tak bisa menulis sebagus itu?
Pernahkah Ayah mendengar kisah dari ibunya?
Kisah peri-peri, para pangeran dan raksasa?
Telahkah ia lupa semua kisah-kisah itu?
Seringkali, setiap kali Ayah terlambat mandi,
engkau pergi memanggilnya seratusan kali.
Engkau menunggunya dan menjaga hidangan
untuk makan malamnya tetap hangat, tetapi
tetap saja dia terus menulis dan lupa makan.
Ayah selalu bermain saja, menulis buku saja.
Ketika aku menyelinap masuk bermain di ruang
kerja Ayah, engkau datang memanggil namaku,
"Kau, memang anak nakal!"
Ketika aku bising sedikit saja, kau akan bilang,
"Ayahmu sedang bekerja, kau tak melihatnya?
Apa gerangan sedapnya menulis dan menulis?
Ketika kuambil pena atau pensil milik ayah dan
menulis dibukunya, seperti yang dilakukan ayah
-- a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, , -- kenapa kau salahkan aku?
Kau tak sekata pun berujar, ketika Ayah menulis.
Ketika ayahku menyampah setumpukan kertas,
ibu, kau sama sekali tak nampak keberatan.
Tapi, kalau kuambil selembar saja kertas untuk
membuat kapal-kapalan, apa katamu? "Anakku,
kau cuma merepotkan, betapa menyusah saja!"
Lalu apa yang kau pikirkan ketika ayah membuang
selembar kertas dan selembar lagi, dengan coretan
hitam di kedua sisinya?
* Syair ke-29 The Crescent Moon.
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AUTHORSHIP
You say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I
don't understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make
out what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing
and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"what a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise, you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,--a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i,--why do you get
cross with me, then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't seem
to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper
with black marks all over on both sides?
