এই পাতাটির মুদ্রণ সংশোধন করা হয়েছে, কিন্তু বৈধকরণ করা হয়নি।
The obsequious brush curtails truth
in deference to the canvas which is narrow.
The hill in its longing for the far away sky
wishes to be like the cloud
with its endless urge of seeking.
To justify their own spilling of ink
they spell the day as night.
Profit laughs at goodness
when the good is profitable.
It is easy to make faces at the sun;
he is exposed by his own light.
History slowly smothers its truth
but hastily struggles to revive it
in the terrible penance of pain.
Beauty knows to say, “Enough”,
barbarism clamours for still more.
