Round the year there was the month of flowers.
Now only the flowers made of paper bloom there..
Once her face was seen among the flowers.
There my heart cries now having lost her for ever.
[Translated from Bengali by the poet]
Should I blame the moon
For bringing forth this sadness,
As if it pictured grief?
Lifting up my troubled face,
I regard it through my tears
He comes from Mass early in the morning
The sky's the very blue Madonna wears;
The air's alive with gold! Mark you the way
The birds sing and the dusted shimmer of dew
On leaf and fruit?..Per Bacco, what a day!
In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
Catching the lilt of every easy tune;
But when the day departs he sings of love,--
His own wild song beneath the listening moon.
Irresistibly changing.
I was silly in my mind. A mistake. At first being a child and then trying to be something else. I really should have kept the red blocks and the two plastic funnels that fitted so perfectly over my forearms and hands. Later, when I could no longer run in circles, I even gave up screaming.
The world, of course, is never bothered with silence.
The mind's the garden of flowers, and
Faith, the florist:
Adorn HIM with the garlands of devotion:
Shower Him with thy inner moonlight
Through a 'Nauri Kalash', in puja
Silent Mantras unto Shankara'll thus
Awaken the souls:
When I remember bygone days
I think how evening follows morn;
So many I loved were not yet dead,
So many I love were not yet born.
I asked the mayor of Gary about the 12-hour day and the 7-day week.
And the mayor of Gary answered more workmen steal time on the job in Gary than any other place in the United States.
"Go into the plants and you will see men sitting around doing nothing--machinery does everything," said the mayor of Gary when I asked him about the 12-hour day and the 7-day week.
The flabby wine-skin of his brain
Yields to some pathologic strain,
And voids from its unstored abysm
The driblet of an aphorism.
BIRD sighs for the air,
Thought for I know not where,
For the womb the seed sighs.
Now sinks the same rest
On mind, on nest,
On straining thighs.
