I scarce knew if it was muezzin's shrill calls
In the holiest month of Ramadan,
Or temple bells blaring from prayer halls
In much hallowed Hindu month of Shravan1,
Or if it was a peacock's sharp pancham2 call
Made higher pitched by monsoon's mellow rain,
Perhaps what woke me was a mix of all,
Hid therein was the same soul-felt refrain.
Behind world of belief's pied paths to seek—
Humanity's lifelong search for meaning
That Sphinx-like rose from within this morning,
And in holy month reaching its high peak,
I wondered if faith needs any a name—
Play needless game, or any loud acclaim.
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Shravan1: The holy month around August based on a Moon calendar.
Pancham2: The fifth note in diatonic musical scale. Peacocks sing in this note.
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Sonnets | 03.08.10 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem