Pain and Despair

Trumpet Player

The Negro
With the trumpet at his lips
Has dark moons of weariness
Beneath his eyes
where the smoldering memory
of slave ships
Blazed to the crack of whips
about thighs

The negro
with the trumpet at his lips
has a head of vibrant hair
tamed down,
patent-leathered now
until it gleams
like jetwere
jet a crown

the music
from the trumpet at his lips
is honey
mixed with liquid fire
the rhythm
from the trumpet at his lips
is ecstasy
distilled from old desire-

Desire
that is longing for the moon
where the moonlight's but a spotlight
in his eyes,
desire
that is longing for the sea
where the sea's a bar-glass
sucker size

The Negro
with the trumpet at his lips
whose jacket
Has a fine one-button roll,
does not know
upon what riff the music slips

It's hypodermic needle
to his soul
but softly
as the tune comes from his throat
trouble
mellows to a golden note

The Negro Mother

Children, I come back today
To tell you a story of the long dark way
That I had to climb, that I had to know
In order that the race might live and grow.
Look at my face -- dark as the night --
Yet shining like the sun with love's true light.
I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea
Carrying in my body the seed of the free.
I am the woman who worked in the field
Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield.
I am the one who labored as a slave,
Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave --
Children sold away from me, I'm husband sold, too.
No safety , no love, no respect was I due.


Three hundred years in the deepest South:
But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth .
God put a dream like steel in my soul.
Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal.


Now, through my children, young and free,
I realized the blessing deed to me.
I couldn't read then. I couldn't write.
I had nothing, back there in the night.
Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears,
But I kept trudging on through the lonely years.
Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun,
But I had to keep on till my work was done:
I had to keep on! No stopping for me --
I was the seed of the coming Free.
I nourished the dream that nothing could smother
Deep in my breast -- the Negro mother.
I had only hope then , but now through you,
Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true:
All you dark children in the world out there,
Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair.
Remember my years, heavy with sorrow --
And make of those years a torch for tomorrow.
Make of my pass a road to the light
Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night.
Lift high my banner out of the dust.
Stand like free men supporting my trust.
Believe in the right, let none push you back.
Remember the whip and the slaver's track.
Remember how the strong in struggle and strife
Still bar you the way, and deny you life --
But march ever forward, breaking down bars.
Look ever upward at the sun and the stars.
Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers
Impel you forever up the great stairs --
For I will be with you till no white brother
Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother.

The Weary Blues

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway ....
He did a lazy sway ....
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan-"
Ain't got nobody in all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."


Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more-"
I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

The Blues

When the shoe strings break
On both your shoes
And you're in a hurryThat's
the blues.

When you go to buy a candy bar
And you've lost the dime you had-
Slipped through a hole in your pocket somewhereThat's
the blues, too, and bad!

Submitted by Denice Jackson

Sylvester’s Dying Bed

I woke up this mornin’
’Bout half-past three.
All the womens in town
Was gathered round me.


Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
“Sylvester’s gonna die!”
And a hundred pretty mamas
Bowed their heads to cry.


I woke up little later
’Bout half-past fo’,
The doctor ‘n’ undertaker’s
Both at ma do’.


Black gals was a-beggin’,
“You can’t leave us here!”
Brown-skins cryin’, “Daddy!
Honey! Baby! Don’t go, dear!”


But I felt ma time’s a-comin’,
And I know’d I’s dyin’ fast.
I seed the River Jerden
A-creepin’ muddy past—
But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester,
Yes, sir! Long as life do last!


So I hollers, “Com’ere, babies,
Fo’ to love yo’ daddy right!”
And I reaches up to hug ’em—
When the Lawd put out the light.


Then everything was darkness
In a great ... big ... night.

Sick Room

How quiet
It is in this sick room
Where on the bed
A silent woman lies between two lovers-
Life and Death,
And all three covered with a sheet of pain.

Po' Boy Blues

When I was home de
Sunshine seemed like gold.
When I was home de
Sunshine seemed like gold.
Since I come up North de
Whole damn world's turned cold.


I was a good boy,
Never done no wrong.
Yes, I was a good boy,
Never done no wrong,
But this world is weary
An' de road is hard an' long.


I fell in love with
A gal I thought was kind.
Fell in love with
A gal I thought was kind.
She made me lose ma money
An' almost lose ma mind.


Weary, weary,
Weary early in de morn.
Weary, weary,
Early, early in de morn.
I's so weary
I wish I'd never been born.

Minstrel Man

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my pain
So long?


Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter,
You do not hear
My inner cry?
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing,
You do not know
I die?

Deceased


Harlem
Sent him home
in a long box-
Too dead
To know why:

The licker
Was lye.

Bound No’th Blues

Goin’ down the road, Lawd,
Goin’ down the road.
Down the road, Lawd,
Way,way down the road.
Got to find somebody
To help me carry this load.


Road’s in front o’ me,
Nothin’ to do but walk.
Road’s in front of me,
Walk…an’ walk…an’ walk.
I’d like to meet a good friend
To come along an’ talk.


Hates to be lonely,
Lawd, I hates to be sad.
Says I hates to be lonely,
Hates to be lonely an’ sad,
But ever friend you finds seems
Like they try to do you bad.


Road, road, road, O!
Road, road…road…road, road!
Road, road, road, O!
On the no’thern road.
These Mississippi towns ain’t
Fit fer a hoppin’ toad.

Two Infants II
A prince stood on the balcony of his palace addressing a great multitude summoned for
the occasion and said, "Let me offer you and this whole fortunate country my
congratulations upon the birth of a new prince who will carry the name of my noble
family, and of whom you will be justly proud. He is the new bearer of a great and
illustrious ancestry, and upon him depends the brilliant future of this realm. Sing and
be merry!" The voices of the throngs, full of joy and thankfulness, flooded the sky with
exhilarating song, welcoming the new tyrant who would affix the yoke of oppression to
their necks by ruling the weak with bitter authority, and exploiting their bodies and
killing their souls. For that destiny, the people were singing and drinking ecstatically to
the heady of the new Emir.
Another child entered life and that kingdom at the same time. While the crowds were
glorifying the strong and belittling themselves by singing praise to a potential despot,
and while the angels of heaven were weeping over the people's weakness and
servitude, a sick woman was thinking. She lived in an old, deserted hovel and, lying in
her hard bed beside her newly born infant wrapped with ragged swaddles, was starving
to death. She was a penurious and miserable young wife neglected by humanity; her
husband had fallen into the trap of death set by the prince's oppression, leaving a
solitary woman to whom God had sent, that night, a tiny companion to prevent her
from working and sustaining life.
As the mass dispersed and silence was restored to the vicinity, the wretched woman
placed the infant on her lap and looked into his face and wept as if she were to baptize
him with tears. And with a hunger weakened voice she spoke to the child saying, "Why
have you left the spiritual world and come to share with me the bitterness of earthly
life? Why have you deserted the angels and the spacious firmament and come to this
miserable land of humans, filled with agony, oppression, and heartlessness? I have
nothing to give you except tears; will you be nourished on tears instead of milk? I have
no silk clothes to put on you; will my naked, shivering arms give you warmth? The little
animals graze in the pasture and return safely to their shed; and the small birds pick
the seeds and sleep placidly between the branches. But you, my beloved, have naught
save a loving but destitute mother."
Then she took the infant to her withered breast and clasped her arms around him as if
wanting to join the two bodies in one, as before. She lifted her burning eyes slowly
toward heaven and cried, "God! Have mercy on my unfortunate countrymen!"
At that moment the clouds floated from the face of the moon, whose beams penetrated
the transom of that poor home and fell upon two corpses.

The Beauty of Death XIV
Part One - The Calling
Let me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love and
Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights;
Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed, and
Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body;
Embalm my hair with frankincense and sprinkle my feet with perfume,
And read what the hand of Death has written on my forehead.
Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired;
Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit;
Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart.
Sing of the past as you behold the dawn of hope in my eyes, for
It's magic meaning is a soft bed upon which my heart rests.
Dry your tears, my friends, and raise your heads as the flowers
Raise their crowns to greet the dawn.
Look at the bride of Death standing like a column of light
Between my bed and the infinite;
Hold your breath and listen with me to the beckoning rustle of
Her white wings.
Come close and bid me farewell; touch my eyes with smiling lips.
Let the children grasp my hands with soft and rosy fingers;
Let the ages place their veined hands upon my head and bless me;
Let the virgins come close and see the shadow of God in my eyes,
And hear the echo of His will racing with my breath.
Part Two - The Ascending
I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the
Firmament of complete and unbound freedom;
I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are
Hiding the hills from my eyes.
The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence, and the
Hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses;
The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter
That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight
And red as the twilight.
The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams
Are scattered, and the voices of the throngs reduced to silence;


And I can hear naught but the music of Eternity
In exact harmony with the spirit's desires.
I am cloaked in full whiteness;
I am in comfort; I am in peace.
Part Three - The Remains
Unwrap me from this white linen shroud and clothe me
With leaves of jasmine and lilies;
Take my body from the ivory casket and let it rest
Upon pillows of orange blossoms.
Lament me not, but sing songs of youth and joy;
Shed not tears upon me, but sing of harvest and the winepress;
Utter no sigh of agony, but draw upon my face with your
Finger the symbol of Love and Joy.
Disturb not the air's tranquility with chanting and requiems,
But let your hearts sing with me the song of Eternal Life;
Mourn me not with apparel of black,
But dress in color and rejoice with me;
Talk not of my departure with sighs in your hearts; close
Your eyes and you will see me with you forevermore.
Place me upon clusters of leaves and
Carry my upon your friendly shoulders and
Walk slowly to the deserted forest.
Take me not to the crowded burying ground lest my slumber
Be disrupted by the rattling of bones and skulls.
Carry me to the cypress woods and dig my grave where violets
And poppies grow not in the other's shadow;
Let my grave be deep so that the flood will not
Carry my bones to the open valley;
Let my grace be wide, so that the twilight shadows
Will come and sit by me.
Take from me all earthly raiment and place me deep in my
Mother Earth; and place me with care upon my mother's breast.
Cover me with soft earth, and let each handful be mixed
With seeds of jasmine, lilies and myrtle; and when they
Grow above me, and thrive on my body's element they will
Breathe the fragrance of my heart into space;
And reveal even to the sun the secret of my peace;
And sail with the breeze and comfort the wayfarer.
Leave me then, friends - leave me and depart on mute feet,
As the silence walks in the deserted valley;
Leave me to God and disperse yourselves slowly, as the almond


And apple blossoms disperse under the vibration of Nisan's breeze.
Go back to the joy of your dwellings and you will find there
That which Death cannot remove from you and me.
Leave with place, for what you see here is far away in meaning
From the earthly world. Leave me.

A Poet's Death is His Life IV
The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white
garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth,
while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens. There in the
suburb stood an old hut heavily laden with snow and on the verge of falling. In a dark
recess of that hovel was a poor bed in which a dying youth was lying, staring at the
dim light of his oil lamp, made to flicker by the entering winds. He a man in the spring
of life who foresaw fully that the peaceful hour of freeing himself from the clutches of
life was fast nearing. He was awaiting Death's visit gratefully, and upon his pale face
appeared the dawn of hope; and on his lops a sorrowful smile; and in his eyes
forgiveness.
He was poet perishing from hunger in the city of living rich. He was placed in the
earthly world to enliven the heart of man with his beautiful and profound sayings. He
as noble soul, sent by the Goddess of Understanding to soothe and make gentle the
human spirit. But alas! He gladly bade the cold earth farewell without receiving a smile
from its strange occupants.
He was breathing his last and had no one at his bedside save the oil lamp, his only
companion, and some parchments upon which he had inscribed his heart's feeling. As
he salvaged the remnants of his withering strength he lifted his hands heavenward; he
moved his eyes hopelessly, as if wanting to penetrate the ceiling in order to see the
stars from behind the veil clouds.
And he said, "Come, oh beautiful Death; my soul is longing for you. Come close to me
and unfasten the irons life, for I am weary of dragging them. Come, oh sweet Death,
and deliver me from my neighbors who looked upon me as a stranger because I
interpret to them the language of the angels. Hurry, oh peaceful Death, and carry me
from these multitudes who left me in the dark corner of oblivion because I do not bleed
the weak as they do. Come, oh gentle Death, and enfold me under your white wings,
for my fellowmen are not in want of me. Embrace me, oh Death, full of love and
mercy; let your lips touch my lips which never tasted a mother's kiss, not touched a
sister's cheeks, not caresses a sweetheart's fingertips. Come and take me, by beloved
Death."
Then, at the bedside of the dying poet appeared an angel who possessed a
supernatural and divine beauty, holding in her hand a wreath of lilies. She embraced
him and closed his eyes so he could see no more, except with the eye of his spirit. She
impressed a deep and long and gently withdrawn kiss that left and eternal smile of
fulfillment upon his lips. Then the hovel became empty and nothing was lest save
parchments and papers which the poet had strewn with bitter futility.
Hundreds of years later, when the people of the city arose from the diseases slumber
of ignorance and saw the dawn of knowledge, they erected a monument in the most
beautiful garden of the city and celebrated a feast every year in honor of that poet,
whose writings had freed them. Oh, how cruel is man's ignorance!

You Burn Me in the Sorrow's Fire

However intensely you burn me in sorrow's fire.
If l am constantly burnt my heart will get purified and I will get closer to you.
After the drought shall I come the rain and


my heart will get touched by your kindness.

The drought will not remain and the dry tree
will again smile with flowers.
Once I've got your forehead's fire,
you beautiful one

I am sure to get the caressing Ganges' touch
the cool moon's feel.

Oh beneficent one! You remind me time and again
with the shock of a blow
You have thought of me again after all these days.

[Original: Tumi jotoi doho na; Translation: Abu Rushd]

Why?


Why must a thorn
The flower adorn?
Why is a lotus born
With the prick of a thorn?


Why in these eyes
Must sorrowful tears lie?
Why must we have hearts When love departs?
Why instead of rain


The lightning's hound.
The swallows beckoned
Into the shadow of the cloud?
If the buds-appear,


Why must flowers wither;
Why the tinsel of calumny
The brow of moon must wear?


Thy the yearning for beauty must
Weep, entrapped in lust?
Would the cheek
Sans black mole
Look bleak?


In this thorny bower,
Oh poet paint your rosy picture.


Your abode lies
In the tears of your eyes.

What a Fire

What a fire burns on, O confidante,
What a fire it is!
My eyes are filled with tears, O confidante
What a fire burns in my heart!


I went callous crazy, not forsaking the body,
on this moonface fell the shadow of my eclipsed love.
my heart swells up with waves of seven seas
What a fire bums on, what a fire it is!


[Original: Ki Anol jole go shoi; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]

The Worshipper

After all, at this late hour,
Beloved!

Like a whirlwind blind with dust
Day and Night
When I

Dance about in a blood-red Death-game
At long last, at this eleventh hour
It is revealed to me that! know thee through

all Eternity.
Worshipper!

Thy voice, thy tune shaming the dove,
Thy eye, thy face,
Thy eye-brow, forehead, cheek,

Thy beauty that knows no equal,

Thy wanton ear-ring swinging to and fro
in dance surpassing a swan
I know, I know all!
Hence, after all, I

Standing on the one, weary, hopeless

and dreary beach of life
From the depths of my fainting heart
Cry for thee and thee alone,

Beloved!

Calling by the sweetest name which is constantly
on my lips as a sacred name on the rosary.
I weep with it -

In my broken voice do I cry, I know thee,
I do, do, do know,
Thou art not one with laurels of victory - nor
art thou a beggar-maid,
Thou art virgin nymph, daughter of an

eremite, thou art my eternal worshipper!
Through ages, thou hast loved this hard-hearted one,
Burning thy own self, thou hast kindled light

in my breast,
Many a time thou hast made me a debtor
to thy worship.
I know thee, Beloved, I do, do, do know through
Eternity.

I oft recognize thee in the sun-set
of life, at the hour of death,
Then after recognition

Thou dost go elsewhere.
Leaving me on the lone, deserted

Farewell-raft.
Sitting at the end of the day, bathed in tears,
I recall her far-off, distant memory
I remember the sad, silent welcome night

of mine that came at the close of spring
When my eyes feasted upon thine and were blessed,

Till then a simple, happy boy - my


youth did not put forth blossoms,
Like approaching, aching, eager Dawn
Half-asleep, half-awake was my boyhood,
My rosy nights went blooming

Free of all barriers, ,
Like a whirlwind spontaneously moving
Or the speed of fiery lyrics, or

laughter that knows no end

A wandering traveller from far afar,
I took thee
And along with thee

Came tearful eyes and pangs of homeless forlorn

heart-
Thou didst come at night, at peep of Dawn,
I sang 'Awake, Beloved, Awake! '
Thou didst rise from sleep, thou didst come to me,
And looking at my face didst smile a

melancholy smile -
At thy smile I wept - whose tame bird distressed
art thou, now deprived of thy forest
home?

O the message of thine eyes! methought
That voice, that tune of mine
Laden with sadness of separation,
And reverberating in the forest,
Which invites the south wind, causes

the flower to blossom and charms the wild doe,
Thou hast known all of myself since the dawn of
creation!

Then, that midnight I did sing
plaintive notes choked with tears of that
unhonoured send-off and wounded feelings.

I did not know whom by the incantation of a song
I wanted then to imprison in my
ever-desolate forlorn heart
Only this I do know that the shade of
thy love-enkindled eyes untimely roused from sleep

Fell upon my eyes.
I saw, too, in the expression of those eyes,
A flood of light mixed with surprise and delight,
A flow of fascination born of profound pain,
With silent sympathy was trembling the love-lorn heart

In the likeness of the dark night
To my thirsty eyes was expectantly welcome,
Worshipper! that sweet, tender light

kindled in the lamp of thy eyes!
Then, at the close of singing .
With a smile I think I called thee near, by the

name
Suddenly didst thon storm with a pent up
feeling of self-respect offended
(Who knoweth why) .


Like a canoe trembled thy serene eyes
Secured with eye brows,
The swelling water through the mouth


of the fount of agony
Fell in torrents!


Such flood of tears gushing out of thy
depths on a little caress
Where didst thou get, O Neglected!
my wandering Beloved?
Tell me, O tell!
On this broken bosom,

Pillow thy bright face bathed in tears
With a thrill of bashful joy
And tell me, a tell!

Why seeing me art thou overwhelmed with
an undefined feeling?
Why at my call such abundance of tears

overflows thy eyes?
An unknown vagrant wayfarer am I,
Seeing me why tears start to thy

virgin eyes serene?
Others laugh at me;
A happy, secure nest is burnt at .
the very touch of my accursed hot breath,
Taking it to be a jewel some people
wear it as a garland,
But when it turns to be a venomous serpent

And bites them in the breast,
Forthwith they trample it under foot!
With one who is disliked, hated and

disregarded by the world,
Forlorn Beloved! Why dost thou
play this sad game
For one why this secret sensibility?

On what right
The mere calling by name doth cause pain to thee?
Art thou loved by nobody? Art thou

tenderly taken by nobody? Art thou
tenderly taken by none?
From birth art thou neglected as

a Beggar maid? And for that
Such abundant flow of tears and
Such offended spirit exciting compassion?

No, not even that
In a forlorn voice while resting on the breast
Who doth in forlorn sensitiveness Say

'No, not even that'!
I saw hundreds come to this house,
Many of their own accord take thee on their breast,
Still yet in thy eyes and face is writ

large a deep discontent and a profound


Pining for love!
Why at my sight doth so much nectar

of love overflow thy breast?
O Mystry! My Queen!
Nobody doth know
Thou knowest not
Nor do I know.


Love alone knoweth, heart alone doth feel
From whence cometh such poignancy of
Spontaneous attraction of heart to heart.
Even without understanding it, I understood
That day, O unknown! that thou

art eternally know to me, thou my

neglected Sita in every successive birth!
Thou hermit's daughter deserting thy forest home,
Eternal virginity; thy tray of offerings to Gods
I broke in every age, thy garland I tore
In mere sport; ever-silent, ever languishing

under a curse, O heavenly damsel!
In silence didst thou suffer
O thou Simple! Simply hast thou
Known thou art my-Queen of

Victory, myself thy Poet.
Then, towards the end of night

Sitting by thy side
I heard thy melodious song,
Half-interrupted by bashfulness,

tremblingly pathetic
Oft the voice reminded me
Of some dim, half-remembered,

half-forgotten, long-lost thing,
Singing in choked voice 'O thou'!
When krishna went to Mathura and forgot

his beloved Radhika,
Methink, she wept out her forlorn

heart singing such sweetest saddest song.
With a breast afflicted by neglect,
it was much like Lalita's lamentation

in secret hour!
Perhaps in lonely forest, alone, wandering,
Damayanti sang in such tired voice
Calling her husband woo was left behind!
Perhaps sad sakuntala remembering her husband
Wept with the forest creepers singing

in such tune, in secret leafy nook!
Perhaps on the peak of the Hem-giri mountain
The long-lost Sati in the person of Uma
Addressed Bholanath in such ever known voice!
Wept she, ever-faithful, beloved of her

husband, to get again her eternal lover!
I see and understand everything,
My youth did not awake, so thy fair face


made no deep impress on my inward eye;
Yet in thy familiar voice my own
I left and went afar in some unremembered

moment along a nameless village path
Scarcely a day or two passed when

on the bank of the same holy Gomati
My heart ached for the first time and a
Strange, fragrant pain I felt in

the lotus of my navel region.
I wandered to-and fro in search of
the source of this pain-laden smell of wine
At the mere touch of my hot, heavy

sighs, trembled the sky, air and earth,
Bewailed leaves and creepers,
Flowers and birds and rivers,.
Bewailed clouds and winds and all,
And bewailed in the breast in fierce

pleasure the insatiate divinity awakened

by youth's tyranny: .
Wretched as I was, I knew not whom I wanted,
So I cried hoarse, 'Where should .

I go, where may I find my Beloved? '
My heart feels a burning passion,
my mind runs riot,
Methink, it is the sad lamentation
of a lover under the load of eternal youth!
Visions float in quick success on

before the eyes of many a color,
red, blue, pink
From whose breast

To my heart of hearts
Doth come and why this painful ecstasy
redolent of musk?

My mind like the musk deer runs a-field.
the air trembles with fear engendered by
my frantic wailings! .
Like the musk of deer

My mind blind with scent roams in
Search of the odour of my own navel!
Mine own love

By drinking itself wants to appease
its own thirst!

My youth under an eternal thirst for
the whole world of love
After emptying an ocean like a drop

longs for another!
Good Heaven! What thirst eternal,

illimitable is this!
Where is contentment? O where?
Where is the Eternal Ocean of Love that

can appease my thirst?
More self-willed, tyrannical, and irresistible than I


Where might I find her
In absence of whom I know no peace
in this wide world!
Thinking like this I go abroad, I only

walk my way,
And meet many a girl on the path,
After them, alas! runs with blind impetuosity
My mind hungering for Love,
If one of them looks back, my
offended sentiment brings a flood

of tears to my eyes!
They laugh at my predicament, .
Some one ignores me, some one

approaches with an offer of favour!
It doth aggravate my grief,
With the deep naked agony of a wretched one,
Like the loud roar of the ocean of

universal cataclysm
Under pain and wounded self-respect
. doth swell in fierce volume
The flame of my heart agitated with distress!
A street girl doth offer favour!
Under my foot I smash her vanity .

with her presumptuous offer!
In tears she goes back, afraid of coming near;
Like Anath Pindada, disciple of Buddha,
My mendicant heart
Hegs from door to door no common alms
For my love-Buddha,
Give me alms, O citizens!
I beg for Buddha, see my master

goes back hungry from the door!
Many came, many went away, .
Some in fright, some in surprise,
Some with a broken heart,
Some bathed in tears
Thus many a nymph came and went,
I beseech complete surrender,
But it is not understood by the happy damsels

of the city
They carne with a smile,
Then at the end of the smile

In tears they go back

To the shady nook of their living home
They say, 'O way-farer! Tell us, O tell
What Treasure doth thy heart hanker after? .
Why is this pathos in thy voice, for whom

is there so much hunger in 'thy breast? '
No body understands what I want
Some 'rings mind and heart, some brings

Youth and wealth,
While a third offers beauty and body.


A proud princess maddened by her riches

Wants to imprison me in the trap of her
beauty and youth...
All in vain! Loaded with despondency ,
my heart goes abroad


As a vagrant warbler
Singing 'where is my love-loran Beloved
my worshipper, Oh, where? '

She who will say, 'I have turned
an anchorite for the sake of love,
O thou my Lord! '

Forlorn am I and not

thy pride and glory
In vain I roam in the wilderness
My thirst rages fiercely
In such moments my thirst-stricken heart
Loses itself for a moment
At a distant, unknown beckoning with the hand
As if she were weeping aloud-,
Saying 'My Love, I am thy heart's wandering maid,

I know thee
Thou, too, knowest me!
I knew not, it was a she-devil,
It was but an illusion,
No water, but a snare, it was a
deceptive image of a lake in the desert! '
'I am at thy mercy', so saying I

called at her door,
Alas, where was she? Verily it was a witch
Alluring me to my doom!
It was a cruel Fowler's net,
It was a device to win the grace

. of a Beggar's bowel,
No, the trap did defeat itself, .
Entangled in her own snare was

finished the witch
To thy door came I with my heart
bleeding from thorns,
Knew not, even then, thou didst feel

a keen sympathy for my afflictions.
Yet from time to time it struck me
that thy sweet, balmy touch could efface

All my bums and pangs,
That to my heart spoke thy heart ever in tears

O way-farer! Give me those thorns;
Where do they prick thee,
Tell mc, pray!

Thou art a silent eremite, keeping in

thy lone privacy,
Hence thy speechless message
I seldom minded, and little understood


that and thy little reserved bosom
There was so much room for love and hope.
Meanwhile I knew not from where

came my mother floating as it were
like a free stream,
In that stormy night.


She took me in her lap, printed a

thousand kisses on my eyes bathed in tears.
The thoroughfare vanished
The chariot disappeared
Drowned was all sorrow and pain,


A mother's love illumined my dilapidate
temple like the festival of Dewali!
My past history like the previous birth
I seemed to forget on getting back

my lost Mother!
A homeless one was restored to his

home, in tranquil happiness and felicity.
After many an age as it were, I slept a
deep sleep pillowed on my Mother's breast.
There was an end of vagrant minstrelsy,
Disappeared in a piteous
lone my companion the tempestuous wind.

0 0 0

Again, again was I benighted
Perhaps at the door of some all-conquering

nymph, Arjun's chariot came to a stand-still.
I forgot the object of my peregrination,
I forgot. my heart had been eternally wandering
and longing for my Beloved, Beloved and Beloved

alone.
I forgot every bit of pain and grief,
The flood of new felicity melted my heart,
And over-flowed my tearless eyes.
It seemed as it were in some lotus of

beauty were imprisoned my eyes,
Its fragrance enraptured my bosom,
And a thrill danced through
some sweetest, saddest sensation.
Life regained and forfeited again
The greedy bird pierced by an arrow
Besmeared with blood the altar of my temple
It could not wake up the stone-image,
Being thus disgraced, I leapt up like a

forest conflagration.
My poignant, blood-red griefs raised their heads,
With a thundering voice I rushed forth

on the blood-horse of Rebellion,
Against the Original Cause of my
Sorrow the Creator - across the clouds of the sky


Holding aloft the meteor flag of Destruction,
Kindling the sacrificial fire of animosity

and creating terror in a barren dreary desert!
What illusion is this! At intervals
Methought I heard a distant melody

of thy flute singing my name, Dear!
Peering into that far-off privacy
My eyes red with enmity became
Softened with tears of silent Sympathy.
Remembering that melody, remembering that call

discarded all my grief
I threw my grief into oblivion,
I do realize, thou art real-thou dost exist,
Neglected by me, thou dost still desire me,

heart and soul,
Alone, wood-nymph,
Thou art wreathing a garland for me

All by thyself,
In bashful privacy.
Thou art my wandering maid, my Queen,
Whom I wood in all my previous births!
The ocean of fire in me becomes a flower

in bloom and says with a smile
'I know, I know'.
Let life return to my dead soul.
From a-far am I summoned by her,
Without whom I know no peace and joy
in the wide world.

But hearken!
Who wails and laments like that?
Some body must have cried from behind
'Friend, thou art behind time' Poor fellow,

it is too late!
I didn't listen, I didn't mind obstruction,
To me alone came floating as it were
across the barriers of the previous
Birth the sad wailings of a forsaken Lalita.
I came running to thee

Breathlessly,
Martyrdom, the chariot of fire, all went
a-begging, the blood-red flag cried'

in the wilderness,
I indulged in a world of luxury and felicity
in secretly worshipping thee in my bosom.
To narrate the sequel I lack language today,
Today I have no heart, no tears, no strength,

no hope.
What I say today is no song, it is but
a blood-red message of a bleeding
heart embalmed in tears.

Yet keep this little bit in mind, Dear,


that from door to door
Baffled I returned
And came to thee for thyself as the Summumbonum.
of my life,
In return for the whole world of my hope and
love and affection.
I worshipped thee, O my unkind Beloved.
thou worshipper!
Methought thou wouldst smilingly take

charge of one who was too wild for the world.
Thou wouldst tame the rebel of the universe
Quite easily by dint of love alone.
Methought for the glory of conquering the
unruly and unconquerable
the heart would be illumined with an

uncommon lustre, and then one day
Thou wouldst infuse celestial fire

into my arms
And become the embodied victory of this Rebel.
I harboured a hope, I had power, too,

to tear asunder the universe
And place the same under thy rosy feet
as a culled red lotus for an offering
But alas! Where art that 'thou'? Where
is that heart?
Where's that inalienable bond of attachment

between two hearts?
This 'thou' of today art not that 'thou' to be sure;
Today I find thou too art deceitful,
Thou too clammiest to be victorious by

means of falsehood!
Thou dost want to give me something,

retaining the remainder for another,
Unfortunate woman! I laugh out my soul!
Whom dost thou want to deceive?
In my bosom is ever awake the true Divinity,
His eyes are penetrating, they can see

into the heart of things,
And most minutely search its inmost recesses.
Infidelity fouls thy offering today, Dear,
Today thou dost try to deceive him
Whom one day didst thou give all thy heart and soul.
Thus I ponder, whose fault it was
That in thy spotless heart
Was kindled this death-provoking light
Yet I wonder is it true?

Thou too, a deceiving self?
If it were so, then O witch!
Let it be true, O wicked one!
Let full light show thy false world in bold relief.
Myself, thyself, the sun, moon, stars,

Let all be false,


Then, then, O alluring Phantom,
Give to thy contrived world a false gleam
As I look at thy face today,
Shame strikes me like a thunderbolt
As I remember how didst thou disregard

and neglect me, I do remember my shameless ness, too
Today I die before my death,
I feel, I must cry aloud, 'Open thy womb, Mother

Earth!

And take into darkness thy neglected.
and dust-covered son from the light
of the day that throws his shame into

prominence
Yet many a time I came with hope
But alas! whenever I look at that face
Ah me! where's that worshipping damsel,

Where's that forlorn anchorite?

The same accustomed disregard I see,
And the same face devoid of expression.
There's no love lost, but a game

. to ride rough-shod over a heart
My bosom bursts under the load of disgrace!
Alas! What cruel game is this, between hearts!
These girls tread a bleeding rosy breast
Under their feet which seem dyed with lace.
They claim to be goddesses, they are greedy

and want to usurp the worship of all!
For them is not the single-minded devotion
of a lover, nor the complete surrender
of a worshipper
Hence, in the name of true devotion,
their timid heart is so awfully frightened,
Frailty, thy name is Woman! She does
Not like to nestle round one bosom.
She is a goddess, she is greedy, the
more she is worshipped, the more she
wants worshippers.
Her voracious mind

Is not gratified with one, one is
not sufficient for her,
She seeks many

My creator-Lord received from me not such
worship as was offered to her, yet she
deceived me!
I do realize, in the end, that there comes
encircling darkness as deep as death
as my companion,
So my forlorn heart out of the agony
of bitter pleasure thunders out:
Why then, O my mind, for whom shouldst
thou go lamenting abroad?


Blaze forth now, burning like the
terrible eyes of the god of Destruction,

Clap thy hands striking terror! Fan
the bloody flames of the eternal fire
of thy Rebellion!

Let the fiery Chariot beat thy
all-destroying trumpet!
Hurl thy battle-axe and trident!
Storm this citadel of Falsehood!
Bring poison made of blood and .
nectar, seize death by the throat!
Let this false world under thy accursed
heavy agonizing wheel be crushed to powder.

In my throat there's today so much venom;
so much wrath
Yet, Nymph!
At intervals I recall

I did not love thee
Till I saw thy light red with passion
and embosomed in thy breast,
Thou hadst all the time
Sought my love and played the
Begga-maid at my door,

Till then a small neglect resulting in thy
outraged feelings of rebellion would
have caused a flood of tears to
arise in thine eyes, and agonized

thy soft and sweet heart.
For a small bit of affection, for a tiny caress
Thou didst many a night and many

a day keep by my side on sleepless pillow
I did not vouchsafe to look at thee.
Is this, then, by way of revenge? .
After conquering me by means of falsehood.
Thou hast heaped disgrace and deceit

upon my head and stopped my breath.
Today I wail from the lap of death
O Heartless! What false cruel game

is this with regard to a heart?
After a world of love, how canst
thou hurl so much disregard,

O women?
Such a blow is man's job,
I knew, we, men, alone could inflict such injuries
Methought, the gift of a spotless fair Nymph
Finds itself in a single delicious
Moment irrevocably in the bosom of her lover,
And thus she loses her separate entity.

for all Eternity,

It is a vain belief!
Zephyr only makes the flower blossom,
The honey-making bee comes and deflowers it


The former is a type of chivalry;
Love and not the body of the beloved
. is all-in-all to him!

The latter goes by Aromatic and knows
how to ravish the blooming tender
heart of the flower

Myself, the sound Wind a traveler
the end of at spring I depart
For that deathless undiscovered country'
.. of Eternal Night!
On this even of departure my eyes are

filled with tears of joy.
As I feel how happy am I today.
Thou hadst loved me before I loved thee
The soft crimson light of thy maiden heart
From kissed my breast and Jace.
From recollections today of that ardent

happiness a deluge of sensations sweet
inundates the broken heart of this hungry one!
Remembering that love and felicity of

those golden days
I feel my life is full - I sink in the

grave contented and blessed
Unsolicited, thou alone didst love me.
In happy remembrance of that piece of joy,
I with my death-black lips

print now a thousand full kisses upon thy
dear name!

Remembering me,
If one night, Dear,
While in sleep pillowed upon one's breast
Thou dost feel a pain in thy bosom without cause,
Take it that dear and gone the impediment!
None else shall come back
In wild ecstasy to kiss thy lotus-feet
Dead is he- the self-willed, discontented


ever-selfish, greedy
But he is immortal - thy love hath

bestowed immortality upon the poet
Who like the deathless Nilkantha hath
Swallowed the ocean of pain.

[Translation: Abdul Hakim] .

The Thorn of the Lotus

In my lotus-lake there remains only the

thorn of the lotus.
When did arise the tremendous noise,
Who did tear off the red lotus of my

bosom?
the lake from time to time maketh
the queries.
Why goeth not the thorn along with
the lotus?
I am now constantly covered with the cures

only of the bathing Nymph.
Will the wandering girls ever come to me?
Ever wear a garland made of my

lotus thread?
Will the pain of my thorn ever remain
only in my mind?
If the flower is gone, who will ever
entwine her bangle with the lotus-thorn?

[Translation: Abdul Hakim]

The Destitutes

Encircled by the water-waves of suffering the
shoal of quicksand,
O insane! Who built a shack there

with your precious hand?
Lightening reveals a new attitude,
Leave this neighborhood, O destitute!
The flowing tear of motherly cloud

is raining over your head; and
The land over there is calling you,
waving its plants and trees' band.
Your daughters are flood-slaughtered weeping
bitterly,
They are being invited today
by the ocean, motherly.
O boatman! O boatman!
Lift your sail - delay? - no more you can,
Your ride is like a stormy fan,
swinging on the waves of sea.
O boatman! Why more delay?
Lift your anchor, let it be free.
Here in the broken life's span,
your time is almost gone!
Look, your gazelle, O boatman,


eyes at the shore for a new dawn.
Your friends have already begun the voyage,
as the night sets its dark stage,
mat-bound your shoulder's edge,

Don't, any more, live in yawn!
To give up the tie of this bondage,
how much more you need to be overdrawn?
Diamond or jewels, you didn't seek;
Millionaire's rich you didn't cherish;
Your want is of a miserable meek


That's as small as a potter's dish.
You sought to sleep in peace,
And, a small mat, even if torn, apiece,
A lamp offering light's kiss,

A small shack with a door, is what you wish!
Enough of death's hanging shadow, or illness' hiss,
No more burglars stealing your fish.
O boatman, sail your boat now
toward land, ashore.
From the hard soil

let your soft feet be bloodied, like never before!
You will roam around as a storm;
You will traverse through places of soft or rugged form;
Approaching rains, like dance they perform,

as they swirl from the Indus river's floor.
Come on, the riders of water now
to the land that invites you to its door.

[Original: Sharbohara (Bengali) , Translation by: Mohammad Omar Farooq]

The Curse

When I shall be no more
You will suffer, I promise,
Cursed, friendless and alone.
Then you will ask the evening star about me,
And with my picture engrave, fin your heart
Will roam through forests and seas
And around hills and dales,
Weeping many a desolate tear.
Then you will realise, my dear,
Then you will search for me desperately
Far and near.
When your soul will tremble
At some one's familiar touch,
And your heart will gladden
Imagining my presence by your bed,
You will suddenly wake up with a start
From your sleep,
And discover with a freezing heart
That it was nothing but an empty dream.


With eager arms spread
You will advance to embrace,
But there will be no trace of me.
Instead, you will meet
An emptiness, dull and dreary.
In anguish you will close your eyes,
Then my darling will you realise.
Trying to sing
You will find your voice choked with tears.
And, all around, people will whisper
About the song, taught by that stranger,
And then you will remember me,
And the fond caresses I bestowed on you.
Thinking of those nights
Your hard and glittering eyes
Will overflow with brimming tears
Then will you regret your past deceptions,
Then will you realise the pang of separation.
When your garden will grow fragrant
With daisies, jasmine and ivy bowers
You will suddenly think of my grave
Covered with snow-white flowers,
And your fingers, busy in making a garland
Will suddenly grow1hesitant and numb.
Your smiling face will turn pale and wan,
And tears will swim in your eyes,
Then, my dear, will you realise.


Autumn wind will come again,
And the lovely dewy nights will reappear
All, all will remain
Save this traveller, bound for the eternal night.



Friends will gather by your side.
And the love will take you in his arms,
But suddenly his touch
Will bring to your mind
The touch of another one.
Turning the joyous moment poisonous and bitter.
That is my cruse for you, sweetheart dear.


Winter nights will come again
But I will return no more.
Yet you will remember the time
When resting your head on my loving arm
You quietly slept, with only contempt in your heart.
The memory of those days
Will make your bed one of singing thorns,
I forecast.


The tide will come in the river again.
Again the boat will float en a pleasure cruise
With gay and loving company.
And yet, the memory of other voyages,
Of a boat speeding by the dark coast,
And of me sitting close beside


Will haunt you like a ghost relentlessly.
Then will Your tears mingle with your sighs,
Then you will realise..


When Your friend will be imprisoned like me
You will shed bitter tears,
When he will treat You negligently
Your happiness will lie in ruins
Then will You find Your days
Cheerless, dreary and lying.
Then will you realise, how very wrong
You were about me.


The rises will blossom again
Again the stars will shine,
And the pale moon reign in the sky:
Season will follow season in regular order,.
But for you
There will be no pleasure.
You will only cry and bewail your lost treasure.


The storm will come,
All tornado will appear,
All ties will break asunder.
And your tiny cottage will tremble in fear.
Then you will remember him
Who will not be by your side.



And you will hanker for his caresses, my dear.
At that hour will you realise.
At that hour will you regret your profuse lies.


The wound in my bosom
That once hurt you so..
Would perhaps appear sweet to. you now.


Tired and weary and forlorn at last
You might now seek it yourself,
And then shall I reappear.
And who knows
You will probably throw yourself
In my arms in a pleasant swoon
And worship me in humility.
Then will you know, my dear,
Then will the final truth be simple and clear.


[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]

Poverty


O poverty, thou hast made me great.
Thou hast made me honoured like Christ
With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me
Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe
My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue.
Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword.

O proud saint, thy terrible fire
Has rendered my heaven barren.
It has prematurely dried beauty.
My feelings and my life.
Time and again I stretched my lean, cupped hands
To accept the gift of the beautiful.
But those hungry ones always came before me.
And did snatch it away ruthlessly,
Now my word of imagination is
Dry as a vast desert.
And my own beautiful!


My yellow-stalked pensive desire
Wants to blossom like the fragrant shefali.
But thou cruel one
Dost ruthlessly break the soft stalk
As the woodcutter chopsthe branches
Off the trees. My heart grows tender
Like the autumn morning
It fills with love
Like the dew-laden earth.
But thou art the blazing sun
And thy fiery heart dries up the tiny dropp of the earth
I grow listless in the shadowy skirt of the earth
And my dreams of beauty and goodness vanish!
With a bitter tongue thou askest,
'What's the use of nectar?
It has no sting, no intoxication, no madness it.
The search for heaven's secred drink
Is not for the in this sorrow-filled earth.

Thou art the serpent, born in pai.
Thou will sit in the bower of thorns
And weave the garland of flowers.
I put on thy forehead the sing
Of suffering and woe.'


So I sing, I weave a garland,
While my throat is on fire,
And my serpent daughter bites me all over!


O unforgiving Durbasha! thou wanderest
From door to door with thy beggar's bowl.
Thou goes to the peaceful abode of
Some sleeping happy couple



And sternly callest, 'O fool,
Knowest thou, that this earth is not anybody's
Pleasure bower for luxury adn ease.
Here is sorrow and separation
And a hundred wants and disease.
Under the arms of the beloved
There are thorns in the bed,
And now must thou prepare
To savour these.' The unhappy home
Is shattered in a moment,
And woeful laments rend
The air. The light of joy is extinguished
And endless nights descends.

Thou walkest the road alone

Lean, hungry and starved.

Suddenly some sight makes thy eyebrows

Arch in annoyance and thine eyes

Blazeforth-fires of anger!

And lo! famine, pestilence and tornado

Visit the country, pleasuregarden burn,

Palaces tumble, thy law

Knows nothing but death and destruction.

Nor for thee the license of courtesy.

Thou seekest the unashaamed revelation of stark nakedness.

Thou knowest no timid hesitation or polite embarrassment

Thou dost raise high the lowly head.

At thy signal the travellers on the road to death

Put round their neck the fatal noose

With cheerful smile on their faces!

Nursing the fire of perennial want in their bosom

They worship the god of death in fiendish glee!

Thou tramplest the crown of Lakshmi

Under thy feet. What tune

Dost thou want to wiring

Out of her violin? At thy touch

the music turns into criesof anguish!

Waking up in the morning Iheard yesterday

The plantive Sanai mourning those

Who had not returned yet, At home

The singer cried for them and wept bitter tears

And floating with that music the soul of the beloved

Wandered far to the distant spot

Where the love anxiously waited.

This morning I got up

And heard the Sanai again

Crying as mournfully as ever.

And the pensive Shefalika,
sad as a widow's smile,

Falls in clusters, spreading

A mild fragrance in the air.

Today the butterfly dances in restless joy


Numbing the flowers with its kisses.
And the wings of the bee
Carry the yellow of the petals,
It's body covered with honey.


Life seems to have sprung up suddenly
On all sides. Asong of welcome
Comes unconsciously to my lips
And unbidden tears spring to my eyes
Some one seems to have entwined my soul
With that of mother-earth. She comes forward
And with her dust-adorned hands
Offers me her presents.
It seems to me that she is the youngest daughter of mine,
My darling child!
But suddenly wake up with a start. O cruel saint, being my child,
Thou weepest in my home, hungry and stoned!

O my child, my darling one
I could not give thee even a dropp of milk
No right have I to rejoice.
Poverty weeps within my doors forever
As my spouse and my child.
Who will play the flute?
Where shall I get the happy smile
Of the beautiful? Where the honeyed drink
I have drunk deep the hemlock
Of bitter tears!


And still even today
I hear the mournful tune of the Sanai.


[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury ]

Pain of the Poor

These children-suffering
from a lack of mother's care,
in rags, their bodies covered with dirt,
faces dried up from starving all day, scornful,
their bodies feverish, skin chapped all over.
They can't even get a meager meal
from laboring all day.
Ignoring them-O Rich, O Ruler,
how can you stand the taste of monda, mithai, khaja?
Starving, when they see you-eating,
they beg silently with their pathetic eyes.
Shame on you!-How do you still go on gorging?
All that rice you store in your binsjust
a portion of it could save them.
You have such a wide variety of clothing;
these children do not have even as much
as the rag you polish your shoes with.
You've trunk loads of clothing,
while these children freeze to death all night long
with their mothers lying in corridors and lanes.


You feel so happy from hugs and kisses
from your children,
their mothers weep holding them in their bosoms.
Your children have no dearth of toys,
their toys are what's been thrown outan
embarrassment for their mothers.
Their unkempt hair, turning brownish and matted,
their skin blackened from roaming about in the sun,
for no reason they get beaten and scolded by people.
Your children cry 'bloody murder' for minor incidents,
whereas they have at most a sombre face
even when their hearts break from sadness.
The mothers of these unfortunate childrenstanding
aloof-who understands how much pain there is
in their tearful eyes?
If there's a slight touch of fever
in your children, ten doctors come rushing to check them.
But for these children-even when they have a high temperature,
there's none to offer them even a sip of water;
reduced to skeletons, they die in their mothers' arms.
They don't eat pomegranates or grapes when they are sick;
they think they have the world
by getting just a piece of sugar candy.
Your children go to sleep in rocking cradles,
these children sleep under the tamarind tree;
even the most stone-hearted aught to be moved to see this.


Nobody understands their misery,
everybody despises them
and thinks, 'Why do they litter the streets?'
So take heed, a burning stomach needs to complain;



I don't wish that even on my enemies. .
Even in such misery,
God will supposedly grant them welfare-that's
the only consolation for the poor.


[Original: Goriber baytha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]

My Songs

My songs like wounded birds, faIl

At thy feet, O darling. Pick up all

Those bleeding birds in your breast

Tenderly and let them meet their eternal rest

At thy bosom, a death beautiful and serene.

Borne on the wings of music they were seen

Flying in the sky when the arrow of thine eyes Pierced them:

And with their dying notes there
did arise

A new flood tide of songs, O my hunter

Thou brought for me a taste of nectar

Shrouded in death's melancholy.

[Original in Bangla: Gaan-guli mor; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]

My Dearest Nightingale

Please come back, come back to my empty bosom
The morning flowers wither away untimely
Mourning your loss
Won't you return to my empty bosom!

O, my dearest silly one,
Without your presence the moon turned pale
The river cries out in pain
Pleading you to return

O, the beautiful one
The trees search for you spreading out their branches
Up in the sky
The storm churns through the woods
Looking for you
Branches lay on the dirt in deep pain

O my restless one
When you return
Lotus will re-bloom
Your glance will make the gray sky
Turn azure again

O, my dear one, please return to my empty bosom!
Please return!

[Translation: Gulshan Ara]