In the west, an evening, a star, a pause of golden rays of rain,
A table laid out like a blossomed rose.
On it, a scotch bottle, an assembly of aesthetic lines and curves of
Translucence, and in it imprisoned a liquid demon, mobile and ruthless
And I in front of him.
Who else could it be who sips diluting the evening and hindol (Indian tune) in the
Silken liquid that tumbles down into the parrot green Rosenthal glass?

One who is not chained to the post of any one country, who did not surrender
His tongue to the fruit of any one tree,
One who did not enslave himself to the waters of a single river,
Who looks on the sea as the liquefied earth and views the earth as the solidified sea-
Who feels the enormous pacific waters as the huge teardrop of the children of earth,

Who gathers in one sweep by his titanic vision the massive landscapes, seascapes and
Humans capes-who can it be?

Who can it be, who learnt to sense the mysteries of the melodious vibrations
Which the Rosenthal glass releases, touched by a fingernail-
Who is that winged angel who hovers about on wings, on towers, on cliffs,
And on the cities;
That lord of the world.
Fo fancy and phantasy,
Who has between his fingers the bunch of stars of Kritika,
Dipping them in the liquor dancing in front of him, bites each star
With his star like fore teeth and enjoys munching them-
Who can it be?
When storms write poems on the cities, then we know that the storm has the power
Of the poet, and the poet has the power of the storm.

Some poet seems to have slipped into a mountain stream,
and melted away in its hurrying waters. Now those waters sing poems forever.

The government true to itself, snatched away my house, but now I enjoy the view
Of the rising sun and the setting moon more than before,
Cruel life made me into a stone, but
I became the sovereign to the empire of stones,
Born to immortal flowers, I dropped lotuses from my hand
And held the heart with it.
I sleep in my own body-
-Seshendra Sharma