By the river of thoughts I wait
Cut in mist of silence
Here and there I sit and lie waste
Waiting for temptation and scourge
It scowls at me, tells if I'm ready.
The angels minister to me
High on their wings I sit with ease
Pretending not knowing my fate.
By the milk I lie low in surprise
Wondering where my friend-foe has gone.
A touch I felt caressing my lips
All I can do is look comfort
The memory I can't forget
How I wish I can divulge the secrets
No! I can't hold telling the story
The journey that took all the months.
My hands in pit of my shoe
Pocket I dip my staggering legs
A silence I got from my friend-foe
Like a satyr in a scorching critique
Up on the hill of manhood
All spoilt with goal of pens and books
Never know of all ends or begins in pursuit
Who should I blame, myself or the throne?
No! Blasphemy! Jewish punishment
Maybe thirty-nine whips could seeme of it.
Void I lay without the motive
Yet the passion kindles the fire
Wisdom I seek turned folly
Zeal I got becomes restless
It burns the stream in my nerve
Help turned its back at me
Lonely I wander in the pasture...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem