The earth is a natural museum into which generations of flora and fauna set;

And our children, the wingless birds set, like rays of evening sun-

And sons of new generations rise from new

Wombs and new seeds, with new faces, surrounded

By new orbs of light only to weave new civilizations, for the pages of history,

Which keep bulging, until the axe of time descends on it mercilessly.

Sweat flows as an eternal under-current of history, the sinews of human machine work, to

Make this glittering superstructure remain,

constantly creaking like gigantic wooden wheel, never at rest and never fed with grease-

History, the stupid woman, works up her hoary voice in tremulous tones, to narrate the

Epic tales of man from graying reason, men listen to her in all times-

The museum is filled and emptied; crowds pass in, and pass out through the halls, like moving winds restless for an unbounded journey, for peaks unseen, unknown but dreamt of generation after generation by the eyes of trees, animals, Men and molecules: while the drums of armies, governments, judicatures, dictators and demagogues continue sounding their empty fanfares-

O each age hungers for a passion, each age invites the rule of stupid theory, willingly; subjects itself to its sovereignty, while the intellect remains critical, watching and hatching the eggs of a new age-

* * * *


Poetry is coming like a red red horse,

like a an arrow from my blood, like the life

of a martyr! It is not letting me breathe!

From across the vast glass-pane are coming

turning into words, all those trees, all

those roads that run through the trees all those

people that the roads carry, all those loads of skies

that people bear, and all those horizons that hang

from the skies; helplessly-

Every moment of mine, comes and goes,

chistling itself into a sculptured piece,

One time as my nation, another time as

my song. Yet another time as my poem, and then

as my blazing sun.

With new faces, wearing new halos of light

my poems come, jumping and dancing

on the new line of my eyes.

On my roads are written letters of

welcome; on my footsteps are rained colours

by roadside trees.

Some children are playing marble, out there.

those very marble which they play today, will

ascend the guns of tomorrow and destroy these

gigantic edifices of oppression.

They shall raise new buildings and new

sunrises will be born in the hills.

Can ranges of mountains stop the dawn?

Sun will any how jump forward, cutting

across with a thousand swords; he will plant

red flags of light on the hills-

The shining roads, which today are

bearing on their backs rolling motor cars, will flee

away through these crowds of trees..

I may go and I my not return; but there

is no escape from my memories; they shall sing

forever becoming birds in the air, they shall become

a million rays of light and spread a net on my


Don't I know my child

What sea is roaring in that tiny drop of your tear,

and that is why I shout my appeals

to the trees, "you must bear weapons and not

leaves on your branches"-

* * *

rocks along my way, entreat me for voices,

voices, voices.

Chariots of experience roll over my chest:

though the flesh of my body is crushed under

the weight of their wheels, I stand staring at the

clouds of thoughtful dust left behind.

I dropped everything as a tree drops its flower.

I cannot explain how powerful is the

beauty which comes out of renunciation!

It is only when I can change my age from

youth to childhood, or from childhood to old age,

from one to another, and summon at will, the

spirit of the years of any part of the life given

tome, only then I become unconquerable, before

that, I was only a ship, sinking between

the peaks of birth and death.

My desires are temples erected on the

peaks of hills, I, a traveler, trekking my way on earth.

I am longing to vanish into the womb of

midnight silence, to pray, into the temple where

there are none, not even god disturb my solitude.