An Ode to the ‘Fucklong’

In its worst condition lies its best representation,
Dusty grey, in a tatterdemalion position.
As much as the fucklong can brave the frigid Decembers,
No man would stand the sight of commandos in street corners.

Something is more complicated than the thousands of bamboo pieces,
The parts that make a fucklong whole;
Only in cold-blooded obstinace can you fracture the fucklong's fleshes,
In this ripe age of brick and coal.

Greedy eyes would dare not glare across,
Violent streams would dare not flow across.
Again, in its worst condition lies the best representation
Of our lives well fitted in these jungle, drainage and commotion.

In the morning when the air is light,
The fucklong is too gloomy, and that's our general feeling.
On our best day, on our best night.
We are so closely related, by blood and look, to the fencing.

Bamboos be designed,
Shackle all the politicos and patriots and police and the people
Beneath the debris, inside the grunge and grime, something outside this piddle,
Chain them in your twine.

And now I have to go to the man of beautiful art,
At Meinothong he sells finer fucklong than the man at Babuthong;
And I would let myself swallowed, supped within the rampart,
And within this cocoon hold by torn but bright grey is where I belong.


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Fucklong is the Manipuri word for a fence. It is a typical bamboo wall that
we can see along so many streets in Imphal, and more plentiful in the leirak and alleys. 
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