Those words you sowed,
Now grow and grow,
In the invisible land,
Just like the words,
Of a vagabond bard.
There was no art,
In your ever green heart,
And the tree of impossible Faith,
Secures your honest farming.
You attempted to abridge the gap,
That no earthly map has ever shown,
And your Lover would not mind to rate,
The beauty by merit you have won.
The drudgery of living for mending,
The dispassionate home of the soul,
And for having the touch-stone,
Are your obvious goals.
The flowery blossoms,
That delicate your tongue,
Are like the magic faces of flowers,
In spring-time from a tree hang.
Knowing not that un-uttered Brahman,
You nurture the Sri Guru given seed,
And your Lover drinks the mead in your retreat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem