This man from now, an old earth,
A dry earth, with no rivers flowing
Sees leaves before a long path.
The wind is throwing
His robe about his face.
Before him is the mountain.
With each step it is growing.
He thinks:
I am of the Kalackra
Though breathed no life.
I have read the epistle to the lowest of the dead...
And saw nothing.
I have not seen Shambhala
Or touched of the golden boughs
In the clear land.
I am a common man
Among the flowing paths
That have run dry,
And see no stars
But only reflections
Glossed over in still pools—
Only feeling the air
Where it once had stood.
See this green land brown,
Sinking into the dry banks,
Hear the old owls echo
Among the stumps of
An empty land.
He breathes deeply as taught.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya
I can only walk.
Shanti, Shanti, Shanti
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem