লেখন/লেখন ১৭৯-১৯৮



The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom
and yet to keep it for himself.

Unimpassioned benevolence
insuts the taste of the tongue,
only pitying the stomach’s need.

The night’s loneliness is maintained
by the silent multitude of stars.

My heart today smiles at its past night of tears
like a wet tree glistening in the sun
after rain is over.

Life’s errors cry for the merciful beauty
that can modulate their isolation
into a harmony with the whole.

They expect thanks for the banished nest
because their cage is shapely and secure.

In my love I pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art.

The bottom of the pond, from its dark,
sends up its lyrics in lilies,
and the sun says, they are good.

Your calumny against the great is impious,
it hurts yourself;
against the small it is mean,
for it hurts the victim.

The muscle that has a doubt of its wisdom
throtles the voice that would cry.

Mother with her ancient trees
points to the sky in endless wonder.

My self’s burden is lightened
when I laugh at myself.

The weak can be terrible
because he furiously tries to appear strong.

Realism boasts of its burden of sands
and forgets its loss in the current.

I decorate with futile fancies my idle moments
and see them float away in the air
like derelict clouds with their cargo of colours
drifting from somewhere to no destination.

The Devil’s wares are expensive
God’s gifts are without price.

The owns the world who knows its law,
he who feels its truth loves it.

Forests, the clouds of earth,
hold up to the sky their silence,
and clouds from above come down
in resonant showers.

The darkness of night, like pain,
is dumb,
and darkness of dawn, like peace,
is silent.

Pride engraves his frowns in stones,
love hides them in flowers.