Not able to hear myself
Too much of noise
From the river passing by the river mouth, teased, humbled, ennumbed
From the crackling spark spitting cinders; agitated, smothered, smarting fighters ensembled
From the early spring winds, that take off on the wings of happiness yet land with a dash of pathos mingled
Quiet, quiet, quiet all of you
For the lamp in the temple cannot be and shall not be wavered;
The sparkling drop of water on the alocasia has to stay glittering, pride enamoured;
The serene, pious quiet of the mornings, innocent drops of Manna to be gathered
The light behind the eyes must continue to illuminate,
No stray sparks, lest the parched, delicate papyrus is gutted and shy poetry shattered
All have come to pass; winters, springs, summers and rains.
What has stayed is the sky, up there, with His promise of vastness, rains or no rains.
Promise of sunset and sunrise
Promise of childish mornings and evenings wise
Promise of sleep and awakenings,
Promise of unbreakable promises
Mild, sober happiness and loyal pains
Pens of cinders and potions of ashes.
Welcome losses and unworded gains.
