Not translated. Written originally in the English by the author, a native Naga speaker.
It’s my turn at the water point:

The trickle is slower today

Each day, slower,

One day, it may stop;

And my field has withered,

Rusted-dry in the staring sun,

The crevices filling with dust.

Tin buckets clash behind me

And a loud voice roughly bawls

“Don’t fill that bucket full!

Fool – don’t you know you’ll slop?”

I withdraw, abashed. It’s true:

I mustn’t spill a precious drop

Not even as a libation

To the gloating sun.
I saw a young man gunned down

              As I shopped in the market place.

              Two thick thuds, and then he fell,

              And thrashed a bit, on his face.

              That’s all. He sprawled in the staring sun.

              (They whirled away in a cloud of dust

              In a smart white van.)

              His blood laid the dust

              In a scarlet little shower,

              Scarlet little flowers.

              In the staring sun, the little flowers

              Will burn and turn to rust.
I stumble home through arid fields

My furtive footsteps hushed by dust.

I scan the sky – hard, limpid, deep –

O pure and high is heaven’s sky!

Is there no shade for me? I weep

To hide from the glaring eye of heaven.

(Cain, my brother Cain!

I know your fear, your guilt, your pain –

I too have now a brother slain,

I too am sealed with the scarlet stain!)

My ink has crusted in my pen

And in my heart – the dust.