Despite having eyes,
I can’t see beautiful things.
Though I have ears,
I can’t listen to sweet notes.
I have a heart
But no feelings are born in it.
Isn’t a corpse better than me?
Apesar de ter olhos,
não consigo ver coisas belas.
Embora tenha ouvidos,
não consigo ouvir notas doces.
Tenho um coração,
mas nele não nascem sentimentos.
Não seria um cadáver melhor do que eu?
I ran with a sword in my hand
to chop off the head of a haughty man
But moved by his affectionate smile
I offered him flowers,
fell prostrate before his feet
and returned
Having become affluent,
I tasted all the luxuries,
but spending a day with a pauper,
who is a paragon of virtue,
I realized I am the poorest.
Once a birdless tree, a garden sans spring, a sea bereft of waves, or a reptile befriending a desert devoid of marquee creeps into your heart, it is the end.
The outcome that threatens the very existence of an essential inner ingredient generates an untold peril. True it is that one should resist it but the effort may stop just at the stage of proclamation.
Foreseeable happenings can be smelt but not those that suddenly surface with no inkling.
Non-stop, unabated circumspection, with open vigilant eyes on all sides, becomes imperative.
By the time you realise that a dried-up well is equal to a honeyless comb, it is too late.
At first, He frightens my life’s ship
with monstrous tides.
But soon, He bestows assurance with mercy.
Suppressing the brutality of the waves,
He fills my heart with calm and peace.
He may appear a little unkind outwardly,
but my Lord is not prejudiced.
Doesn’t grant me agony alone all times;
Now and then, He showers me with surplus smiles.
(Self-rendering of my Telugu poem Parihara Krityam)
Taciturn men are disdained by all –
they’re always mum; that is their fall.
Shrouded in silence, seized by diffidence,
they languish in despondence.
Verbosity is a virtue
in the eyes of this banal world,
but poor taciturn men are mute and cold;
So, to many, they’re off-putting a hundredfold.
Many a tight-lipped man
may be going through the torture of
a thousand knife-thrusts every minute,
or tasting the havoc of raging storms
within, each moment.
Poor taciturn men are misinterpreted souls,
for they are closed books, subterranean dens,
unerupted volcanoes in oceans.
They need to be assessed with utmost caution;
compassion is what cures their desperation.
God has given us a mouth
to talk sparingly,
and a pair of hands to
comfort others caringly.
“Always talk less and work more”
is what should dwell in your heart’s core.
Words are ducks that swim
in the lake of a composition.
Don’t push them in large numbers;
they will give rise to congestion.
Words are gems set
in a crown – they add to elegance.
Don’t overuse them,
else they will produce repugnance.