এই পাতাটির মুদ্রণ সংশোধন করা হয়েছে, কিন্তু বৈধকরণ করা হয়নি।
Leave out my name from the gift
if it be a burden
but keep my song.
Memory, the priestess,
kills the present
and offers its heart to the shrine
of the dead past.
My mind starts up at some flash on the flow
of its thoughts
like a brook at a sudden liquid notes
of its own
that is never repeated,
In the mountain, stillness surges up
to explore its own height;
in the lake movement stands still
to contemplate its own depth.
The departing night’s one kiss
on the closed eyes of morning
glows in the star of dawn.
