The philosopher meditates and chants
with every breath--
`No, no, no!
Not emeralds, not rubies, not light, not roses, not you, not I'.
On the other hand, the Infinite Being Himself has pursued His creation
Within the limits of human mind,
And that is called `I'.
Within the depth of that self light and
There arose images and emotions.
Who knows when, by what spell of Maya
‘No' bloomed into `Yes'
through lines and colours, joy and sorrow.
Do not call it philosophy.
My mind is full of delight
In this sphere of creation of the Great Self
With a brush in hand and colours on a palette.
The scholar says `That ancient moon--
He has a cruel, cunning smile
Like a messenger of Death
He is stealthily approaching the ribs of the earth.
One day he will attract her oceans and mountains
With a tremendous force.
And that will produce a cipher on the new page
Of terrestrial time
And devour all accounts of days and nights.
Human achievements will lose their
pretence of immortality,
Human history will be swept over by the
Dark ink of eternal night
The dying eyes of mankind
Will suck the last hues from the universe.
The dying souls of mankind
Will wipe off all its emotions.
Power will vibrate through the skies
No light will be there.
Through the vacant hall of the deserted world
The musician’s fingers will dance away,
No music will be there.
That day the unpoetic God will sit alone
In the sky devoid of its blue
With his accounts of impersonal existence.
Nowhere upto the farthest end of the vast universe,
With its unlimited number of galaxies
This voice will sound,
`You are beautiful!' `I love you!'
Will God sit again to meditate
Through the ages
And chant in the dusk of destruction
`Speak! Oh, Speak!'
Will He plead, `Say, you are beautiful’?,
`Say, I love'?
15 Jaistho 1343 From Shyamali (1343)
Published in Parabaas February 15, 2004