The eternal flame of love keeps burning,
Burning mystically
And the poet marking it,
The flame going red,
Turning into a blaze,
The embers falling from.
A poet Wordsworthian, Keatsian and Shelleyian,
Gill is a poet of beauty
Which is truth
And goodness,
Beauty is truth and truth goodness,
Satyam shivam sundaram.
The thing which it is in a flower,
The thing which it is in a floating cloud,
What it is in the innocence and ignorance
Of a child,
He admires, admires them,
A poet of love and its worth.
Love is a melody tuned and played
In many a tune,
Love is a sweet note breaking
Into many a melody
Charming and luring enough,
Enchanting with the music of heart and soul.
Love is a dream dreamt
And seen
In the image of a dreamgirl standing before
And greeting,
The photograph of whose
Decorating the studio of images.
The Flowers of Thirst is a book of dreams
Seen and envisaged,
Of idea and image
And reflection,
The brandy or beer of beauty
Brewing in the form of love-wine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem