It is a beating summer,
All the birds have left the dales.
It is a beating March,
All the rivers are dreaming for rains.
...
Among the streams of refugees
He was a boy of nine.
From the winds of Lahore
It was an exile forever.
...
From the meads of night
Stars are peeping unto a temple ground.
And upon a stone pillar
A solitary earthen oil lamp
...
The bird is gone
The tree is now asleep.
The waves are calm,
The tide is now over.
...
Licht nicht eine Lampe
Nach diesem Grab.
In es kann umkommen
Wenig fliegt.
...
Unto the passing lights and evening hues,
Unto the endless waves of life,
He plays his Piccolo
To the tune of matchless olden times.
...
Aux cieux occidentaux
Elle fait son vol de matin.
Aux eaux de la vie
Elle l'ouvre dehors des ailes.
...
AN EPISODE FROM THE LIFE OF JAGADGURU* ADI SANKARA. AT THE AGE OF EIGHT, HE LEFT HIS HOME RENOUNCINNG THE WORLD. IT COULD HAVE BEEN QUITE UNBEARABLE FOR HIS MOTHER TO LEAVE HER ONLY SON LIKE THAT. IN THIS POEM, I AM TRYING TO RECAPTURE THOSE MOMENTS OF DEPARTURE.
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She was on an endless prayer;
...
During the youthful period, most of us face the following situation when our friends would be leaving our dales in the hunt of a job. The precepitation is loneliness and a state of disappointment till we also begin to take on to our wings.
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Upon these dales
We were one feather,
...
He blew a bomb,
There was an endless sob.
He charged his sword,
No more was a peaceful world.
...