Peace- Meditation and Self Control

The Infinite in the Miniscule

Bidyutprabha Devi


Tiny little flowers,

tiny blades of grass.

Rosy innocent smiles

on tiny little lips.

Wink of the twinkling little stars,

thin stream of tears under the moist eyes.

Pallid, mild flames,

of little earthen lamps.

Delicate flowers.

little dew-pearls.

Little spots

on butterfly's wings.

Specs of dust

tiny droplets of rain.

Whatever the seeing eye

Calls the miniscule in creation,

there the mind discovers

an infinite world.

Translated from Oriya by Sumanyu Satpathi


Peace- Self respect


THE Soul’s Prayer

Sarojini Naidu


In childhood's pride I said to Thee:

'0 Thou, who mad'st me of Thy breath,

Speak, Master, and reveal to me

Thine inmost laws of life and death.


'Give me to drink each joy and pain

Which Thine eternal hand can mete,

For my insatiate soul would drain

Earth's utmost bitter, utmost sweet.


'Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,

Withhold no gift or grief I crave,

The intricate lore of love and life

And mystic knowledge of the grave.'


Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low;

'Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,

And thy unconquered soul shall know

All passionate rapture and despair.


'Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,

And love shall burn thee like a fire,

And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,

To purge the dross from thy desire.


'So shall thy chastened spirit yearn

To seek from its blind prayer release,

And spent and pardoned, sue to learn

The simple secret of My peace.


'I, bending from my sevenfold height

Will teach thee of My quickening grace,

Life is a prism of My light,

And Death the shadow of My face.'


Peace- Meditation


D. Vinayachandran


I am a palm-tree

on the bank of this paddy field.

My voice is lost in the wind.


On the hill-top

I am a monastery.

My head is tonsured

in the prayer of Thathagatha.


The sea-shore is my love.

Soaked in sunset

we walk towards the moon.


The cry of this unseen bird

is my life. In the slant

of the sky it becomes deep blue.


This blind old man

is my prophet.

Like my alphabet

he keeps asking:

"What is your name?"


Translated from Malayalam by E.V. Ramakrishnan


Peace –Endurance


Balachandran Chullikkad

A disciple asked the tailor:

Sir, what is freedom?

Is it the calf frolicking in the fields?

The bird that flies up to build its nest in the sun?

The train that runs, whistling, north?

The street-lamp the wayfarer in the dark pines for?

A sleep without cares?

Or is it my redemption from the endless

lengths of cloth, the wheel that turns

non-stop and the relentless needle?

The tailor replied:


Freedom is food for the hungry

water for the thirsty coat for the one left out in the cold

a bed for the weary


The word for the poet

the arrow for the hunter

society for the loner

courage for the frightened

death for the eunuch

and a son to perpetuate the family for the married man

arc indeed freedom.


Wisdom for the ignorant

Action for the wise

Self-sacrifice for a man of action

and for the martyr his life

are freedom.



one who stitches not will lose his dream-vision.

There is freedom at the illuminated

tip of the stitching needle.


It is the grain the sower reaps.

The bread for the one who sweats his brow.

The shirt for the one who stitched it.


Then the master resumed his stitching

The disciple, his doubts dispelled,

started threading his needle.

Translated from Malayalam  by E. V. Ramakrishnan.


Peace- Purity of Thought and Endurance.


O.N.V. Kurup


Stones splinter and lie scattered

in front of me all the way.

Stones that trip my legs,

stones nailing in sharp; stones

that poison the deep in me,

stones that measure and mark the earth,

stones sticking out ill-omens.

Yes, stones and stones all this way I

Smooth, some rough-

these beauty-spots of the earth,

they are at times ugly and raw.


Stones again, the sinners aimed

at poor Mary of the past;

(stones with blood-tinged curse on every lip-

have we poked at their hearts for their kindness?)

Stones with their branded foreheads

stand witness to the graves that hide

the lavish waste of lives

that ate, drank and died reckless:

Stones lost in the flow and falsehood of history;

stones that have by hearted the echoes of those

who thirsted to' renew the land:

lives in thousands,

numb like dead stones,

somebody has trampled on.

Stones again, dreaming of some

divine touch of bliss;

stones, yes, the dark rock splinters in life

dare cap the caves of this wild of millions;

stones that boil like sun;

stones brimming like sad tears;

stones that darken like the night;

stone reddening like the dusk;

stones, time plays nickels and dimes,

they're the earth's still-borns,

an ever-forgiving mother's griefs.

Who can bring them back

carving life from their stone-blocks?

Who can fiddle its hush into a song?


Come, Shiva and Shakti. Come,

come in a mighty hammer and a chisel

to dance over these stones t

Let these stones labour in pain,

beget children fit enough

to create and destroy.


Translated from Malayalam by Joy T.R.



The Path Towards God

K. Satchidanandan


Don't go to the temples;

Images will entangle you.

Don't trust the holy books;

Their truths are obsolete.

Don't seek out priests;

Middlemen always bargain.

Keep away from groups;

They breed only violence.

Watch your body:

It is splitting apart.

Attachment does not hinder;

Only practise it with detachment.

Love is way

If not confined to Man.

Poverty is divine

When not imposed.

Don't block the wind.

Don't go after the cause.

Meditation needs no mounts.

Squat on the grass.

Listen keenly to the leaf,

The bird, the rain and-the river.

Don't forget the waking sun

Even while sleeping under the moon.

Don't curse solitude.

The world is most alive

Inside the lonely.

Silence is prayer;

Emptiness, fullness.


Translated from Malayalam by the author.


Peace- Purity of thought

How to Go to the Tao Temple

K. Satchidanandan


Don't lock the door.

Go lightly like the leaf in the breeze

along the dawn's valley.

If you arc too fair

cover yourself with ash

If too clever, go half-asleep.

That which is fast

will tire fast:

be slow, slow as stillness.

Be formless like water.

Lie low, don't even try to go up.

Don't go round the deity:

nothingness has no directions,

no front, nor back.

Don't call It by name,

Its name has no name.

No offerings: empty pots

are easier to carry than full ones.

No prayers too: desires

have no place here.

Speak silently, if speak you must:

like the rock speaking to trees

and leaves to flowers.

Silence is the sweetest of voices

and Nothingness has

the fairest of colours.

Let none see you coming

and none, going.

Cross the threshold shrunken

like one crossing a river in winter.

You have only a second here

like melting snow.

No pride: you are not even formed,

No anger: not even dust is

at your command.

No sorrow: it doesn't alter anything.

Renounce greatness:

there's no other way to be great.

Don't ever use your hands:

they are contemplating

not love, but violence.

Let the fish lie in its water

and the fruit on its bough.

The soft one shall survive the hard,

like the tongue that survives teeth.

Only the one who does nothing

can do everything.

Go, the unmade idol

awaits you.

Translated from Malayalalam by the author.


Peace-Endurance and Self Sacrifice

May or May Not Come By

Adil Mansoori


Sporting in riversand this town may or may not come by

This scene on the screen of memory may or may not come by


Draw in your breath its ocean of fragrance

Again this drift of moist earth may or may not come by


Let us look at the colleagues with content

These smiling faces, this amiable gaze may or may not come by


Fill the sight with roads, windows, walls

Afterwards this town, these streets, this house may or may not come by


Lament today clinging to the kins

Later on someone's grave may or may not come by


Farewelling faces will reappear in the eyes

Even if any consort in the journey may or may not come by


Let me smear the soil of homeland on my head

Perhaps in a lifetime this earth may or may not come by.


Translated from Gujarati by Dileep Jhaveri.


Peace- Purity of Thought and Meditation.

The Boy



On the hills near villages in the east,

Sometimes in mango orchards, sometimes on dykes,


Sometimes in the lanes, sometimes in the lakes,

Sometimes amongst the merriment of youngsters half-clad,

At dawning, dusk, in the darkness of the night,

Sometimes at fairs, among the pantomime players,

Or lost on quiet by-paths chasing butterflies,

Or sneaking towards the hidden nests of little birds,

Barefoot, no matter what the weather,

Out of school, in deserted abodes,

Sometimes laughing in a group of pretty girls,

Sometimes restless like a whirlwind,

In dreams, floating in the air, flying like a cloud,

Swinging in trees like the little birds,

I see a boy, wandering, carefree, independent,

As the flowing water of mountain streams.

This nuisance acts like my shadow,

Following my every step, no matter where I go,

As if I were an escaped convict.

And he asks me:

Are you really



I acknowledge the blessings of Almighty God;

1 admit that He laid down this earth

Like a vast bed of velvet and brocade;

I admit that the tent of skies is His benison;

He ordered moon and sun and stars in space;

He brought forth rivers by splitting mountains;

He created me from dust,

And gave me dominion over the earth;

Filled oceans with pearls, and mines with rubies;

Filled the air with bewitching bouquets;

He is the Master, Mighty, Singular, Wise;

He separates darkness from light,

If I know myself, it is His benevolence.

He has given splendour to the greedy,

And adversity to me;

Made idiots wealthy, and a beggar out of me;

But whenever I stretch out my hands to beg,

The boy asks:

Are you really Akhtar-ul-Iman?


My livelihood lies in the hands of others.

All I still control is my mind which understands

That I have to carry the burden the rest of my life,

Till my elements are dispersed,

And my pulse stops beating;

That subsisting means forever singing

Melody of dawn, or lament of night.

In front of the victors,

I cannot even call my song my own:

I have to smile when they say

I am singing their song, not mine.

My pen's creations, the work of my sleepless nights,

Have to be passed like a counterfeit coin.

When I think about myself, in sorrow I say

That I am a blister, bound to burst one day.

In short, I wander like the morning breeze,

Longing for the morning,

When I seek help from the night,

The boy asks:

Are you really Akhtar-ul-Iman?


When he does so, in a fury I reply:

That depressed, neurotic soul

You keep enquiring for is long dead.

I have wrapped him in the shroud of self deception,

And thrown him in the grave of his hopes.

I tell that boy the flame is quenched

That was bent on burning all the trash of the world.

The boy smiles, and says softly

That's a lie, a fib, a cheat.

Look!1 am alive.


Translated from Urdu by Baidar Bakht and Kathleen Grant Jaegar.


Peace- Self-control and Purity of Thought.

Root Out Desire



The wise declare that desire is the seed

of the sprout of future births.


Desire freedom from births, and this comes from

the end of other desires.


Be it here, be it there, nor the wealth nor joy

can match freedom from desire.


Truth-consciousness leads to desirelessness;

this, in turn, to purity.


The truly free have conquered all desire;

others, seeming free, are bound.


Ascetics root out desire, for it is

a trap and a disaster.


Let the desire be cast away first; all good

will then come with ease and grace.


The desireless eschew grief: the rest are

a prey to manifold lies.


Once kill desire, the evil of evils,

here and now the bliss is yours.


Desire grows by it feeds on; kill it,

and felicity is yours.


Translated from Tamil by K.R. Srinivasa Iyer.


Peace- Meditation and Self-control

Psalms of a Saiva Saint



What time O lord to me Thou camest,

The silent Teacher teaching me

The secret of the way of stillness,

How I in it might safest be,

Like children building toy sand-houses;

In fancy eat there fancy's food.

From day to day in soft contentment,

So have I chosen, Lord, as good

The halfway help of human learning

And in my mind have held as true

The daring of unbridled fancy

That Thou and I are one not two.

To curb my mind that thus rebelleth,

To keep it under right control

I do not know the way, I languish,

I faint, and long for health of soul.

When wilt Thou make me heir and worthy

Of grace ,Who givest grace to all.

O Lord in bliss beyond all thinking

That dancest in high Wisdom's Hall?


Translated from Tamil by T.Isaac Tambyah.



Almora Spring

Sumitranandan Pant


Coral and emerald shade,

sun's heat first gold then silver;

snow mountain scent on silken breezes,

a hundred jewelled birds painting the sky.

On autumn's brittle yellow bodies

a world of newborn beauty budding,

while blaze of coolest green

sheds everywhere its tender light.

New heaven of pleasure, youth and love,

and loveliness created afresh;

Nature's in bud, horizon blossoms,

skies rain bird-song and hum of bees.

---See, like a bright cicada spreading its wings

about to fly to flowering valleys---

this is the Almora spring,

blossoming on every mountainside.


Translated from Hindi by David Rubin.


Peace-Self Control

The Show is On

Leeladhar Jagoori


The contrasting world you see

is called complexity.

Adam is not with it, as

much as with his colloquy.


At the rear of the non-stop reval

clamour sounds like a chorus

but, if you listen with care

you'll hear a sinister -sounding instrument

harping upon our indigence and ignorance

---much as we harp upon our culture;

it transmutes the pleas from the outer

world into an unlikely rhapsody.


Nothing is being born and yet

you all continue harping in despite.

At such moments I feel

I too had bettre relish, colloquially,

the taste of being

by taking a header for the lower rungs;

And from the formidable upper rungs

I should much against my palate

all the confounded tastes

from versifying to vasectomy.

Whenever I sense so

there rises forthwith the tail

of a query or a cow.


After searching and shifting it were said

the problems is ill-besieged,

the party the lone point of reference

nor the people.

Therefore erasing the line

between life and personal computations

the sene has been shelved

the one about sympathy, about civility;

goes on as it ever has.


If ever the curtain goes up

I shall demonstrate my readiness;

if it never does

I shall, like many another

plead my growing incapacity

to know, to comprehend.


Translated from Hindi by Ajit Khullar



Do Not Ask Me How I Have Been

Nilmoni Phukan


Do not ask me how I have been

I haven't asked me either

down the Holong flows

a young female torso

What I was last nigt

king hermit farmer labour

lover rebel poet

a tiger looking for waterholes

after the kill

I forgot what I was


Do not ask me how I have been

After all I am not alone

for even after that last supper

I haven't bid adieu

nor could I take my leave

I haven't laughed since Auschwitz

nor cried either


And where can I go

I forgot where I came from

the day clings on to life

vomitting blood

the bones and bits

trudge along the road

with wry laughter


Do not ask me how I have been

for dogs in coital ecstasy

in shop-front show-cases

at the Bhutnath grounds

the blind Kali fancies

a girdle of male genitals


For everyone has the same fear

even the dead

to say or not to say

to do or not to

to open the door or the window

for ,this long wait since then

Fibs lies pretence deceit

Youth cruel kind


Do not ask me how I have been

because it's darkness now

Now even it flickers

Now even it glimmers

adversity travail disaster

and in their wake

the banner of man's blood


For in my trouser pockets I carry

two forbidden hands

a bullet reddens in flight

in my bosom

for, it is silence all around

the terrible din of peace


Do not ask me how I have been

down the Holong flows

a young female torso

because, for forty-two hours

my corpse lay there

on the footpaths of Guwahati


For even now I have my eyes open

even my death stares open eyed

for, in pool and puddle

in creek and lake

fish in shoals glisten


O you, my ambling horseman.


Translated from Assamese by the author.



The First Raindrops

Dinesh Das


Feathery drops of rain

Drip down from tender, young clouds

In the sky

An overflow from the blue cup of life

After a long, long time


The first raindrops burst forth

Like the endless wails and whims

Of a new born child

How gentle, how very sweet.

Is the first rain!


I long to lift my face

To open my lips

To this fresh shower from the sky

Like a thirsty swallow

To feel the creamy soft drizzle

On my outspread wings

Like a sun burnt kite


Oh to fall upon the golden sand

Like a silver raindrop!

If only I could be reborn

This day

As a tiny raindrop!


Translated from Bengali by Swapna Dutta.



On the Slope of This Hill

Shamsher Bahadur Singh


On the rocky grassy slope of this hill, Topsy and I.

The quick breathing of the spaniel sitting alertly beside me.

A half-finished, distracted sketch;

Open in my lap, a notebook, bright white in the sun.

Standing all around me, big and small trees,

stirring, glistening,

very green.

Rainclouds ---radiant with sunshine, radiant in the blue sky,

the washed sky.

Like big and small puffs of cotton scattered everywhere.

Sometimes the resonance of a clean gentle sweet wind.

The background behind the mild, mellow whirring

and droning on the hill, in the woods,

on the slope---a railway station.


The clanking, hissing, groaning of engines: their long


---when this wasn't here, there was only the

soft and sweet music of the wind.


....A low-then-loud-once-or-twice-shrill whistle. An engine


The mixed-up whispers of the winds among themselves.

Wide-awake Topsy.

Below, in the distance, like a huge, smoky green, shimmering

garden, with some of its countless roofs shining here

and there, the city of Jabalpur.


Its green lawns, and in scattered places, its green compounds.

And below us, close at hand, the red-and-black stony mounds

of dug-up earth.

....A noise--what bird was that?

again? again?


That glass-house nearby. Somewhere also something like a

children's quarrel.

Little groups of women-workers carrying loads of red mud on

their heads.


The breathing of an engine letting off its steam as it draws

closer slowly---

Then quickly; the exhalations dying down one by one: but no---

suddenly, a long whistle.

The sharp slanting slope of sunshine.


Translated from Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker.



Sinner's Terror

Madhusudan Rao


Whither shall I flee?

In which obscure nook shall I hide?

At home, in wilderness,

in oceans, in the sky;

in all ten darkness, in broad daylight,

in the darkness of the night;

in crowded places, in solitude;

in dreams, in waking moments,

what tremendous eye constantly stares at me,

striking terror in my mind!

The barred entrances of the fortresses,

stone walls, mountain caves,

dungeons, prison houses,

aye, easily piercing all barriers,

that very wide-open eye stares at me.

my whole being trembles,

battering my heart!

Piercing every layer,

my very innermost core,

The Dispenser of karmic justice,

ferocious thunder,

Scourge of the barbarian,

Ceaseless punishing God Almighty!

are you the self-same terrifying,

all-seeing universal-Eye?


Translated from Oriya by Sumanyu Satpathi.


Peace-Purity of Thought

Heaven of Freedom

Rabindra Nath Tagore


Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments

by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into

the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening

thought and action-

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.




Keshav Malik


There's always hope

The pigeons will condescend,

form a circle about my feet-

they have so circled before.

But this noon,

without bread-crumbs

I not quite know how proceed-

they sit quiet

on the far criss-cross brick-court.

Opposite, boys fling rocks at trees-

trying to dislodge the sharp-tasting tamarind

from the boughs.

I have watched them at it often,

between hits and runs

they pull branches down.

As is said, boys will be boys.

But grown older, I can only look

for looking what's of moment now

and listening, straining to skim

snatches of secret sounds from the breeze,

scanning the skies for signs

of a rising column of light-

the pepper of interior vision.

And yet, to be grounded,

that ancient life-imprisonment

in a decrepit body;

caught in the throes of dumb habit

the sleep of higher reason-

wish ungranted for the self-surpassing music,

and only dying echoes;

from a leaden concrete floor

no more than dulling reflections,

smoked windows-an X on the panes,

clouded head the rule;

the mind wandering off from its mission

to ramble in a mist of nowhere,

and thus ramble it must-

no pilot on the controls,

guiltily reliving what it once lived.

Oh there's such buried life lies hidden-

now sitting here, now there,

sharing moments spared by the great,

shaking hands with wits

but out of touch with its own breast-

dead facts that continue to live in spite.

What angel of music will lay these spectres-

those legions boot black in death,

like the rolling plain

from Bijapur to Sholapur?

The chain of associations grows in length-

digit adding to digit-

that leads to little sense,

what will one with these legions?

Oh, for a mind steeped in music alone;

music that plays on nerves tuned to a fine,

vibrating above the warring dissonance that is


electric countering the goose-step.

Music, vital fluid,

activating the veins in the slowly revolving


Orpheus who gifts breath

to sterile stone and wood;

the receiver trembling like a seismograph's hair-fine wire-

the sounding rods, percussion, tympanums

recharging the inmates in the house of the dead.

But one note from the magic flute,

and full blown the lotus-hued light-

an inert earth, see-sawing like moon-drawn waves.






Long ago, beyond the memory of man,

In a blind night eclipsing sun and moon,

Writing In pain

Mother gave birth to a child.


in the dark moment

When the first brother slew the first brother

And buried him,

The child woke up and cried.


Then as murders raged

in seething darkness,

As lies surged up in triumph,

As deceits stole close

With daggers hidden behind smiles,

The child grew strong and smart.


His mother's milk not relishing,

He searched for battlefields and blood,

And laughed in glee at sight of them.


He began to run about,

He grew dark as night,

His fiery eyes grew round,

And teeth and nails grew long.


And once he saw

The agony at Calvary;

Sucking that in

Another six feet he grew

Thus as he grew

And stood a terrible figure tall and straight,

Our forefathers fed him well.


They fed him on famine,

On the tortures of war,

On the pain of the deserts

Through which came slaves

Writhing under whips,

And groaning under loads of stone.

Life crawled into night

Burdened with centuries' pain and sin.

And now the Colossal Terror's

Hunger shakes the earth.


We, yes too, feed him well

With piled-up suffering hill-high,

With the blood of world wars,

With the ever-burning smoky flame of Hiroshima,

With the greedy hatred of empires

Swallowing each other,

With the debris of broken ideals.


The more, the more we give,

The fiercer the monster grows,

His hunger rages;

He grows taller than the sky,

Towards us his arms come lengthening.

His mouth gapes wider;

We pour into it the tears of Dharma

And again the blood of Truth.


No, not enough!

Shaking with laughter

The monster bends down,

Takes our earth in his hands,

And stands straight and huge.

His wriggling tongue licks every corner of the earth;

He has begun munching it.


The sky fills with the poison of his breath;

My heart Is faint

I have only a lute

To face this giant with.


Whom do I call through my lute?

Whom do 1 search for?

I search for a mighty one,

Mighty as the Varaha

That rescued our Mother

From the depths of the sea.


Translated from Malayalam by Hridayakumari.




Labshnkar Thakar


During childhood

In sleep

I had seen

A white horse neighing thunderously

Racing through woodlands


In the demented monsoon squall

The back wall of the house

Crashed down

From that bleached backdrop

Sprinted away

The white horse of the dream

All over the city

A stampede of a thousand

Wildly neighing


Vanished in the entrails of the earth

Green grass

Re incarnating

Over the collapsed houses

Behind the emerging grass shoots

Quiver of gazelle tail

Next day


Masons had arrived


The back wall was re-erected


Translated from Gujarati by Dileep Jhaveri.  




Banmali Biswal  


If you don’t know

how to walk


will fall sure


what is the defect of road?

Impartial and unselfish road

gives equal right to all

without Partisanship,

Either king or a poor man,

May be rich or the wretched,

He may be an old man

or a youngster or beautiful lady,

Everyone’s way is same,

same is the action.

Four-wheelers can go

or tricycles or bicycles

A horse-rider or an elephant-rider

or any Pedestrian

The road never answers,

neither complains nor argues.

All may go as they wish

to get own target,

to achieve own goal

The road is indifferent

Neither any joy nor any sorrow,

It’s motto is only one-

Endurance or patience.

Let numberless misfortunes come-

let it meet with heartbreaking agonies-

Patience only patience.


Translated from Sanskrit by Dr. Harshdev Madhav.


Peace- Purity of Thought

 Morning Prayer

Nissim Ezekiel


White wings of morning

Shelter men

Sleepless or drugged with dreams

Whose working hours

Drained of power

Flow towards futility.

White wings of morning

Bring to city masks

A taste of spring

And clarity.

Wake them by your symbols,

Light, light, light,

Unveil, expose, expound

Your metaphors of meaning,

And let them know lucidity,

White wings of morning.



Peace- Purity of Thought


Harshdev Madhav


As any Farmer

Makes his bullock free from his cart,

I am making my soul free.


As a hand of soft wind

Plucks away a flower from a branch.

I am plucking away soul from the body.


As a nice morning

Calls some bird out of its nest,

I am calling my soul to come out.


As the tide catches

The drops of water out of sand

Spreading tiny ‘hands’ of foam,

I am inspiring my soul

To be a part from my body.


Translated from Sanskrit by the author.


Peace-Purity of Thought

For My Enemies

Sachindananda Rautray

May the red hibiscus garlands

around my enemies’ neck

become white lotuses

in my lover’s hair!

Let the poisonous frown

in my enemies’ brows

turn into steps of fine moonlight

on the lotus-filled waters!

May my enemies’ network of lies,

and fabricated slander

become the names

of some beautiful village-

Shobhana or Rupsa!

May the poison of my enemies

easily turn into nectar for me!

Let their coded exchanges

straighten all the narrow, crooked roads

into straight, wide highways!

Let their tears act like a charm

and in a moment

turn expectant cows into milking mothers.


And let their blood

make my country bounteous.

May the red hibiscus garlands

in my enemies’ neck

bloom in a hearty laughter!


Translated from Oriya by Sumanyu Satpathi.


Peace-Nature and Purity of Thought



Baba Sheikh Farid


The season turns

The forest thrill, the trees

Shed their leaves,

The leaves flutter away.


I have searched the four

Corners and found neither peace

Nor permanence.


Translated from Punjabi by Rakshat Puri.


Peace- Purity of Thought  and  Nature

(It can be changed to Love-Humanism)

If I return

Premendra Mitra

 If some day I ever return again

If I come back

On a pure, untarnished dawn

Of autumn, or
A moment of arid mediation

On a midsummer noon,

Or perhaps a rainy night

Beneath a cloud cast sky

Upon this earth,

Would I recall all those

Once known to me?

Those I love this moment-

Would I find them then

And know them too?


Perhaps I shall be reborn

Upon the shore

Of a foam-tipped, wave-rocked sea

In a diver’s hut

Or a shoddy shack in a nameless hamlet

Of some ancient land

In the arms of a wayward, wayside dancer

Or- I know not where!


Would my eyes be still alright

With a light like this

Would the same stars

The same blue sky

Greet me then, once again

Would blossoms bloom, as they do now

The green grass touch my feet

And the world still seem

A varied multitude of lives?


Would I then recall

How much my eyes

Had loved this light some day

That I had once played upon this earth

That I had laughed and cried

And loved with all my heart?

The buds of hope

Which I now leave behind

Shall I ever find them once again


When I bid adieu some dusky eve?

All my work that I have left undone

In this, my life

The games left incomplete

Shall I find them once again some day?


My sighs, my tears

My agonies and despair-

Shall I come across them once again?

Would my sorrows which I leave behind

Pull my back

And my dear love ask of me

“How could you forget me all this time?”


Would my days be spent again

In joy and sorrow

With my love

Each moment of existence

Be blessed

With the same dear, poignant sweetness

Spreading joy on every side

Sharing joy will all

Shall we walk together

Confident amidst hurdles

Tireless in sorrow

Loving every one and everything?


If some day I ever return again

May bring more light within my eyes

More love within my heart

May I love this world or ours far more!

May I then just forget

All my sorrows, all my pain

All my slips and falls of this existence

May I bring more light

To illuminate that future life of joy

That life of endless and eternal bliss!


Translated from Bengali by Swapna Dutta.