When I fall asleep, sorrows roll down,
or at late night they dribble down
like the dense fog of dawn.
Sleep is metaphysical- I’ve been impressed so far
by the dual domination of dreams and reality, yet
sorrow has appeared with all its punctuations
this night. In other forms it turns over the pages
of my diary one after another and observes
the wings of the lonely birds
All these poems composed in this autumn are nameless,
yet their sportive metaphysical radio signals
in real sense create self images- in this way
following the implicit customs in this note book,
filled in this season,
sorrow goes on putting its independent signature.
I, rather, come near, and then go away far;
see, at a distance, the sun-pane, the reflections,
and the eternal limericks of sun.
Besides, I see the traps of desolation
and the lamentation that deplores mirrors.
In the afternoon, I go to visit the place by the river Yamuna;
I climb the growen- I observe grasshoppers,
the cumulative water going downriver-
fathomless and mysterious
as if it were the cumulative form of my sorrows,
and the blocks of cypresses growing in desolation.
I have come to this long pool of water; look, this long pool
is like lying in pride of water- a form of silence.
Look, light has spread a three dimensional span;
the light, afternoon light, the immaculate and sensorial light;
it is perhaps restless to be united in colors;
it denotes some roles, elaborately symbolizes,
in lines and colors- everything from oblivion to loneliness.
I have come to this long pool of water;
let me write down the course of my wandering-
the clusters of leaves are dangling in easy lines
in the minutes of seasons, in the trees, in the labyrinths;
the deep green lines wander among trees;
let me store the sketches of groves
and the zigzag course of water as a sign of fate.
Within a short while, dusk will spread its glow;
under that glow the sorrows will appear familiar again.
Now I’m busy in arranging the maps in the constellation;
only in the constellation towards east, west, north and south east,
and as I intend to fly them, I attach the two old wings with them.
I want to fly to the epitaph zone; moonlight encroaches on my heart.
I scatter the particles of moonlight in utter inexpressible delight.
The epitaph goes on submerging, streamlined, free from life.
If I fly away, there remains no geometric feeling;
only sorrows drag straight lines from the ceiling.