Fear and not honor,
I want from thee, my countrymen;
For love and honor,
In its greatest of forms too,
is but an illusion,
Which you chase enough,
just to know
That it is but an illusion.
For it is only when they are benefitted
That love and honor is withdrawn
But it ceases to be
When their purposes are met
and then they turn away from you,
Like the sun from earth, after it is set.
Honor, Like mirages in the lonely deserts,
Beguile its seeker,
by its deceptive smiles and flames,
Hidden under which are "reasons" of counting men;
Who likes the radiance of the sun
But turns their head down
When the clouds beneath the sky run.
Oh! Behold! love, care, and utmost kind words matter
Null to them
But it ceases not to
When the care and love
Bears some fruits in their
It is like the climbing stairs
Which we cut when climbed,
and then their ears go dead to the cry,
which asks for a reply
about the love bestowed
About the care showed.
And thus, o my Countrymen!
Fear and not honor, I want from thee,
For honor is fugitive,
and fear, eternal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem