(Certain meanings of hindi language words:
Mantra: Hymn, Prayer
Brahmin: A priest
Kalyug: In Hindu mythology as a time of evil, decadence, and untruth; here used metaphorically, comparing our time to that of Kalyug.
Srishti: The Universe
abhaas: Intuitive feeling, Sensation)
The mantra is eternal,
without beginning, shall not end;
A divine truth at the bottom
of which was a character (not a person entirely,
but a human who became divine):
it’s impossible to say just who he is,
but, since we are in confusion today,
let us pray and discuss this great man.
Kalyug: they know us, those peasants,
they have known us saints,
though our minds have not yet been fantasized,
like the dreams that in those necessary forests dwell.
How a man of past’s worth, a Brahmin like us!
But Man no less, with fears, with persona, of fears even,
those fears that in those caves dwell,
of dreams and fantasies, like knowledge – which only the Brahmin understood;
as he deposited himself at the River’s head,
a head that carries all of us,
with a mind so strong until the ocean, or the sea,
those beautiful frames of eternity,
those paradises of eternity,
was there no question or emotion?
Of course there was – a Brahmin, not dead,
was there no fear – that’s already been said.
The entire Srishti is formed here, in the empty spaces,
need be, to define these? A movement towards enlightenment
and THE CERTAINTY OF THE QUESTION,
such depth here, and such lengths!
Who lives here? Why, it is I!
The barricades of knowledge, and then…
the hindrances it makes, if only for a moment,
for you always knew the jump, you don’t know it,
you only sense the Poetry, an abhaas
of an ordinary, empty space, where the entire Srishti is formed
you don’t appreciate
neither Poetry nor the form
of this dark, empty, ordinary space,
all words both all are taught,
God! Enlightenment! Drama!
These all have come to naught,
and with Ideas a new day is born.
Just as one thinks, one loses everything under the Sun.
Just as one feels, one speaks artificially; but it’s true! One does feel the beauty
of the constructed wonders of the Earth, the Himalayas, the Taj Mahal, mughal estates;
this creative bent in our world, our own sweetest world, our Home, sweet home,
Here now, even if gone,
here now, only since
Prove your worth, then die: what a charade, a masquerade upon death,
How can you live with its guilt?
Sin: but that’s not the right word for it,
we must look for it, then live,
inside the poem,
which everyone enjoys,
and some appreciate, because they seek.
The Father, The Son, and The Prophet,
not in the sense of the sacred,
but that story telling of man,
in this sphere upon this eye,
how one goads, one asks us to stay
here. They seek the way.
Here, humanity cries out. Thoughts escalate.
All then, in vain,
All then, is destined,
Even so, since chosen,
shall not be, but is
or mere feather
wanders to and fro
until caught by someone
with a feeling of beauty
or pure smoke
risen in the sky
from chimneys, factories, and the like
in a fit of depressed
And we are brought to a standstill.
The show must not go on.
All then, in vain,
All then, is destined.