Darkness tramples my throat— For my soul, radiance-tanks are needed to take bath. Colossal wind-circles are needed for me to take water with two arms – Green forests, meadows, birds and animals are needed for my eye – my soul surges forward toward them breaking all barriers; the verge of a wet green grass-stalk is enough, a thousand-petalled lotus blooms in my mind.
The voices of the birds that sound like orchestra in the forests are enough, my dreams rush forth; birds are the first poets in the world.
In the meadows where the fruit-bunches hanging like electric lights, and flower-branches swaying like chandeliers together control the five senses; on the green grasslands my dreams playfully spend time. There aromas intoxicate the wind.
For my well-trained eye, flower, bird, colour, and raga are all manifestations of one thing only; different resting places where the soul sojourns in its journey; that my soul immerses itself in one or the other is the sure sign of it.
My soul has converted my body into a garden where different seasons make a sojourn; not only in mansions, but even in heart- flames, there remain gardens, man should tend them. More than outer fields, they should be tended in inner domains...In such poetry-pastures, a peacock should dance like a simile.
Looking at the colour of a flower, I can live for a hundred centuries – Sounds that are life-treasures can be heard only by deathless souls; to gain these sensations of the realms beyond, a magical sunshine-laden art is needed that can be practised in inner recesses…
Then only we come to know that birds' voice is greater than man's voice – the language of the flowers is greater than that of birds – language of the forests, of the streams, of the oceans, the language of the skies and the earth, so many! This is all a magic school of original languages in which experiences are used as alphabets. My soul breathes in those magic sounds. How much is this world indebted to colourful evenings, birds of different ragas, wafting breezes – how can the untrained minds understand?
Having looked at the world intently and studied men deeply I realized that the world is but a collage of signs... all these humans are only signs, wherever we go, humans change, but meanings do not change.

I am afraid of even entering that garden!
each wafting fragrance, conniving with breeze,
carries a pack of memories
each dangling piece of the blue sky patch
seized in branches, exhibits
past life scenes one after the other.
I cannot bear
those birds' songs that squeeze
my heart's arteries...
I continue to hear the song, it disturbs:
It subjects heart to melancholy.
But, the bird is-not to be seen
despite my search—

Shadows of mountains fall over hearts
The garden I searched for informs me:
Bird means a flying song—
hence I am afraid of even entering that garden!

The bird that made a sojourn in the green leaves is singing still. Pecking at the pains of wounds - its soul imprisoned behind kaleidoscopic wings is gliding along playing on notes.
Pure being! While singing it gets exhausted; still singing, it escapes from its body, sweet being! How can it understand the contexts of my pain?
Piercing my heart I offered the segments to so many springs; wearied, now I am continuing my journey with a butterfly as my companion.
How nice it would be if some Chaitram transforms me into a flower and drags me along fastening me to the wheels of its chariot! Or else, won't it be nice to annihilate myself jumping into the flames of these flowers!
I cannot walk amidst these colour invasions, musical notes of these wind storms, ravaged skeletons of seasons; at last, I bid farewell to spring burying my butterfly in creepers of flowers.
O bird, I will listen to your remaining song in another world, pardon me!

How the tree is looking at me in wonderment! Then only I realized that all the trees here are thinking of me – Although all those hills are shrouded with creepers and green branches, they remained with unshaken stillness, their thoughtful eyes are visible to me.
The trees and hills have been waiting here for centuries for the one who could illuminate and explain its hearts.


In my long meditation here, I captured the geometry of these shapes and the grammar of these silences—In the words of these trees, in the vocal chords of these mountains, in the body language of this wind, in the efforts of these flowers, how many charms, how many graces, how many inexpressible sweet sounds are laden, I savoured the essence of all these, and in fact, they tended my soul with their hallowed milk.
I caressed the entire body of this globe with my gentle, soothing consciousness — This earth pulsates with life in every particle, it is vibrating with excitement... every moment, it speaks in the rhetoric of colours, in the language of aromas. Even a stone converses with us in expressive silences!
The trees of this region bend their heads to canvas and brushes floating like blessed angels in dream worlds. Like photogenic faces of humans, these trees are paint-worthy; their very lives are meant for heavy golden frames...
The sun whose eclipse the time takes a whole day to affect, that sun is hindered here by a small cloud providing a mammoth shade to a big valley…In the bright moon-lit phase the moon is born to those Cyprus trees. As it emerges from the womb of the trees like a colossal silver orb, the sky looks in awe and wonders how it could accommodate it.
As I write, the sun alights over my pen like a child; his tender childhood rays, in droves, peep into my will power caressing my fingers.
Toiling hard in the field of a poem, I forget to breathe; along with me, even my blood arteries forget to flow; after completing the task I take leave of my poem and come out, I take bath in the sunshine. In the warm sweetness over grasslands I let loose my senses asking them to play like children.
Coming out from the interiors of the earth, the flowers welcome my naked figure. Valleys invite me extending their wide arms. I make an exit into their hearts becoming a silence—