লেখন/লেখন ১৬১-১৭৮


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.



The lonely light of the sky comes through
the window
and borrows the music of joy and sadness
from my life.

Sorrow that has lost its memory
is like the dumb dark hours
that have no bird songs
but only the cricket’s chirp.

Bigotry tries to keep truth safe in its hand
with a grip that kills it.

God seeks comrades and claims love,
the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience.

The soil in return for her service
keeps the tree tied to her
the sky leaves it free.

The immortal, like a jewel,
does not boast of a large surface in years
but of a shining point in a moment.



The child ever dwells in the mystery
of an ageless time
unobscured by the dust of history.

There is a light laughter in the steps of creation
that carries it swiftly across time.

When peace is active sweeping its dirt
it is storm.

The breeze whispers to the lotus:
“What is thy secret?”
“It is myself” says the lotus,
“steal it and I disappear.”

The freedom of the wind and the bondage
of the stem
join hands in the dance
of swaying branches.

The jasmine’s lisping of love to the sun
is her flowers.

Gods, tired of paradise, envy man.