Having silence and reticence as my companions, I go on walking ahead following the drowsy path, crossing the musk melon farm immersed in hypnotism of the Orion. This possessed picture ahead, an expanded range of feeling of simplicity, the three dimensional lying of lights and the facile darkness of bird technology when this over-path of sunset will be made out of the merit of the birds.
Life is inside the circle of hills and seas. Actually, I realize the change of blood. The path regularly trodden by stars, you make those nights and the advent of moments matured. Those who go on living with nights, those who go on doing so with darkness, can become boozed with torpor and breath; they can compose the limericks of silence. Look, this is the interpretation of souls. Those who leave the vibration of the echoes in the cryptic depth of darkness know that matters are not ultimately detached from shadows. Those who, in the most intensive burdened reality, turned the full concord of reflection dubious, have the sacredness of life.
You all take routes to silence, and my vagueness keeps on sitting with me; I dream of the rose garden of Freesia: I find the king loitering on, and the senses of cooperation among flowers, getting together, are trying to establish relation with him. Thoughts have, you know, their own pain that stirs the lower areas and the valleys, and stirs the mysterious scales of the first notes, the middle octave and the major E-scale. Those who become tired in the tillage of life, those who laugh loud in its obscure darkness, really become vanquished in their own reality devoid of any alliance. They become perplexed and surprised. They can only find the crust of shadow-reality as if the attentive anxiety of things at the advent of their dusk at last exposed those dividers.
The burial and the songs of things remain covered in an unmindful ignorance. The pots of invisible searching keep hanging in the possessed atmosphere where the great vacuum of prattling express itself, and where the water-island birds go on whispering. You all keep on touching my songs; you dissolve your tearful eyes on my horizon. Now, I’ll be simple as I have under my own; now I’ll mix all the magic-tricks of the mysterious mirror in air. Now I’ll really become straight like some dots. Now, I’ll purify my thoughts with your ones and laugh the last fleeting laughter of my life. Going on laughing, I’ll now become a void; going on laughing, I’ll turn into a universe, really a man ignorant of his routes and having no calculation, having really no idea about self safeguard like a Scorpio. The moon and stars of life want relief from the extreme blue procrastination of conscience.
How strange looking shadows! Everything exists near with its significance. We can love the unfinished songs floating in the silent sky. We should love those who have become tired, those who are still unexpressed and even those who have roamed aimlessly following the desolate paths of heart. Going on living is meaningless among all others of the same types. Yet, in the dense deep streams of life dreams go on floating in an exalted expanded desolation.
I can recollect the man who would exercise astrology; he would roam the whole night treading the lower and upper lands looking for the sings left by stars in some spots of mountains and plains. We can recollect the drizzling darkness of silent moments when the prudent planets would plot against life of sacredness and purity. They want to expand the domain of darkness so that we can leave the foot of the existing mountains for the shepherds. Walking through all the widest defeated paths, I have come to know that all sorts of pedantic bragging spread hollow vanity; flying alone in darkness, going to the soft green sylvan realms is preferable to that. Being first indicates the possibility of a crown along with union and suavity because those who want to keep stationed with the afternoons of heart have kept the inheritance of all the mundane customs denied. They have wanted to keep the hypnotized shadows and gratitude of the rivers in the depth of their own inner sights. Inside the barges of life and exile, they kept the sensuous birds that, in their course of flights, managed to find out the language of torpor of the sky; in real sense that was silence in comparison to boundlessness.
I have never been able to come out of the dot, but the shadow of the circle is still lying on me. I feel like rotating the circumference, but the Venetian blind moves a bit; the pride of presence moves a bit. All the days and nights of feeling simple are now spontaneous because before death we are bound to count the number of all the green trees and to observe the sleeping moments of horses well. The woods have solitude; desires have their own light and darkness from where the miraculous messages of curious self-possession keep on springing out for a long time. We keep on watching- fish are walking on water and solitude; what a pose in the walking of trees on the skyline! We keep our glances on the circumference of dots and go on feeling, with the pain of nerves, the void all around it.
I have created you for me, and them for you; this is the result of relations: actually, rivers cooperate with us in respect of our conversation with fish. The advanced land, where there is the summon of festivity, where there exist trees with movement of things, has kept the roles of birds in consideration in the same way as the imaginary clouds cross the mysterious moon, and the obsessed men, with slow paces, pass the fashioned over-path made by earth-covetous birds.
Look, I’m looking for that moment when the stars reach the circumference of the moon; in that stratagem, they look for the thread of darkness that freed a strange atmosphere of perspicuity in the besotted intensification of our groundless individualistic thoughts.
On every reticulate bag there hangs an earthen pot devoid of air; the liquidity of nerves accumulated, and the liquid dawn and the enchanting night also laughed as they were going towards the sky. I also walk on the steadfast footless roof of the earth as if I could pass a life of unison in a slowness having no opponent. I prefer a room without a roof so that I can find an intense close contact with the middle position between place and time and can depict the stunned tales of clouds on the sashes.
Elation springs out of being free from gravity, and elation springs out of loneliness and desolation. When stars, the moon, sky, night and solitude keep on making you compassioned, you cannot help feeling elated. Who does not feel elated trekking a mountain through a plain path after observing the fire experience for honor getting one with death in the guillotine?
In dead of a Shravan night, getting soaked in rain, I reach the straight square trees and implore them- oh trees, oh silently stationed figures, in this water soaked night don’t ask me any more to come to you stealthily. Don’t implore me to turn into pain devoid of your touch. Every year of mine has only winter and rain. During the eagerly budding times of my life I have not been able to play the cheerful notes of dhun of the spring of others, nor have I been able to dissuade the unobserved suicide at dusk. Three in-fold strokes stuck to my convalescence are keeping themselves unmoved inside the march-past of silence.
I feel satisfied if I can help a blind person cross a road; I feel so if I can compose any even song in Yaman mode for the deaf. And I want to keep the nocturnal melodies of season changing of Purobi for those birds that spread the balloons of sunlight in the sky from dawn to dusk. After taking bath in slumbering water, they will go to sacrifice memories of Hades. These are the modes of my life: the soft one of dawn, the stimulating one of noon and the elegant mode of night. I have mixed some extra portion of melody, breadth and gitkiri.
In this way zero hour appears, and with its touch, there appear origin and shelter. Centering round the wide expanse of desolation, birds fly away towards the equatorial line. We have known much, but there remains more unknown. Without a mirror, how will you be able to possess all these reflected expanses of heart that has prostrated to ever moving and stupefied existence that does not bear any result? The life awaiting death is not a life at all. Don’t you know in an outer winter bending my knees low I am aimless waiting for which land? The screaming dictionary of blood shatters and reunites the shadows. Having plunged into a deep feeling, look at the sky. You’ll see the constellation weeping with the stationed and quivering fires. They are weeping because they have pangs of distance, because they have the feeling of charmed simplicity. If I were a star, I’d get burnt into ash that would freeze into stones and from those stones I would emerge again as a human bird of eternity.
At last the songs from departure assemble here, at this place. This beach tossed with wind and silence and the burdened reality together delve deep into the cool touch of a cave. The hermit crabs, out of desires, have become engaged in the respite of searching architecture. You’re not, really, sick of flawlessness. The commencement of countless loopholes of simplicity and perpetual secrecy- this journey towards the unexpected has broken the dexterity of man into smithereens. There exists the ever present maritime melody; we feel no hesitation except the restless and dangling fluctuation. We carry shadows from the plain on our backs, and passing all police check-posts, we reach the interval line of the custom evening. Then we mount up the hills with vacuum caves to submit the bodies of wayward shadows.
This life is the totality of fidgets under the broken constellations and the flouncing on the cracked mirrors. When the particles of blood render the plasmas colorless out of pangs without any reconciliation, when the ebony camels of gloom, following the mountain passes of nerves, gradually go on advancing, the bland, plaintive cries of the clouds make us restless. Being restless, we watch all types of disintegration of noon, the hour of slow fleeing of shadows. The shadows move away, and the new ones are born. In the same way the extent of time is also born. We watch morning, noon and night- all full of shadows. Shadows overhead, shadows below, shadows in trees, shadows in fruits- shadows in life, shadows in death. Transformation, as a result, has created a possibility that only spreads infatuation in the realm of interim feelings. I feel touched in having contacts with the incorporeal; I feel so while wandering with them as if we were so intimate though none is visible to the other. Invisibility is all. When at a belated moment the attitudes of death start roaming, invisibility appears and places the gestures of the inexpressible.
Letters come from the dead, letters in whole white. I go on reading and turn my concave glass into tears. I go on drawing still flowers of vacuum space with my brush on the surface of the coffins. And then I take shelter in the realm of winter. I also have my own polar reality. I also have white out.
Clouds in the middle of the sky, establish your relation with the feelings and expressions of trees because your reality is wrapped in self-confidence that knows different implications and absorptions. Give our poet-trees self-circled power of creating poetry so that they can illuminate the streamlined trysts of desolation of perception as the gesture of distant near has arrived to transform the solar color of blood.
The span of life gets shorter within a short gradual period; it really gets so; really does it. All sorts of silence of songs and incantations go down like the setting sun. The big flies of life falling on the dough are now drowning for their own navigating gravity. I loved the sea, and sank in its secret quicksand. I cannot float for the gravity of my soul that loves the belief of the deep bottom. The total existence of expression infuses the warmth of emotion and excellence as the trustworthiness becomes human. If I did not exist, that would be better as sometimes I feel suffocated like a fly confined to a transparent bottle. Those who are used go on walking constantly after death. The meaning of life is to be missing since that is caught outside life itself.
I like lying stretched. Doing so, I feel the exercises of my soul; I feel the tempo of ebb and tide. Its eyes roll down like marbles and knock at the wall of my entity. Someone sitting on a chair set on my nails go on playing the guitar. I wonder perhaps it is death. It has stayed so close so many years and approved silence among the shudders of life the nails of which are now stuck in my desolation. I can feel the presence of all types of isolation: they are bare like seas, are isolated like comets.
I can no more stare at all your eyes: I find disappointment of seas and deserts. I wonder weeping of geometry and geography with simplicity get mixed into one with the eyes of gloom and sorrow; the mineral pangs of unexpressed life are hidden deep inside those eyes.
The wailings of this furnace are made with ice and fire. Catching the threads of rain, they reach the torches of the rainbow in the hope of watching the carnival of cold fire.
This is the bard songs of the desolation of life. The soul is a bird that we have covered with feathers. When it flies, the feathers fall down. Particles of sand even being separate stay together and after staying together remain separate; in that way we remain in the herded existence of feathers and the soul- separate but together, together but separate. How strange! What a mathematical expansion of impossible relations!
Some birds once while flying lost their eyes; now for distant current the smile of the concave prism cannot be found back, but the luster remains in the tinge of dusk.
My outward shows increase for you. Look, I’m waiting having a wind-house in front of me. Someone went away to that direction; I’m, perhaps, the vibration of his shadows; I’m, perhaps, his mind surrounded with shadows.
Time sings offerings to evening Raga, and I prompt him. After the adventures of life I’m on respite now, detached from everything. With my legs broken in a playful moment and all anguishes concerning that, I’m staggering to eternity. Now I’m on my last adventure, collecting the shadows of birds lost in the sky. The distant over-path fashioned by birds dangling unaware; I stare at its pride of haggard look.
Come, open the rivulet of souls. Remain unrenowned like a mantelpiece burnt in darkness. Cloudy cool skylarks are ignoring the presence in the sky. Let anyone come and pronounce you correct. Keep in mind that perspective is more valuable than the scene. Let there be an immersion of your secret organs in the stream coming from beyond sight. The sun with the mask of shadows will walk into your depth today.
Keep three letters from the alphabet of the arch for those who go on sleeping with words. Don’t wail for this anymore. No stagnant language rule waits for man on any uncertain journey. Let’s go on touching three lunar days from the course of the sun to the south. The days of our eating the seeds of thorn apple have come. The bones have become besotted now; after death once they will carry the weight of the adjacent ending of their own.
Nothing except the reflections has been left on the eve of departure. Something else than life, walks away touching the walls of dreams; the shadows of vibrating words create presence free of weight- a calligraphy devoid of any edifice belonging to silence.
The aspirate sounds, deed of compromise with eternity and the invisible midnight five-stringed instrument- all these are our signs for the uplift and falling down of the soul, the invisible mask of Kathakali. For this reason, the measurement, for the foamy existence, creates the marshes of crystal water; and we pass, according to our ability, the forests of yellow woods, the tree-shadowed village Monkhali and the murmuring crowds of leaves there. Life long this is the affection; this is the plebeian vision originated in the sky:
the crow-soaked field emerging from the left away season, the saluting over-path fashioned by birds.