Called upon, and the self does not exist,
Whoever erred, lest a tale of heart -
A tree bends down and no one ever
Knew; what ailed the hollowed trunk.
The little acts, counting stars, a child’s play
The path is straight; ‘you’ do not exist.
Selfless, the artist, burns his oil
Creation shall speak, like the invisible god’s.
Aloof, assign any name, neither born
Nor gives birth. A lonesome presence:
On the other hand, to tell a tale
Is falling from grace and nothing else.
Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
December 11,2013.
Self Portrait, Vincent van Gogh @ HowStuffWorks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
lonesome presence, I like it, thanks.