By the Cooling Pyre

 
O my restless mynah bird,
tell me, how many more mute nights must I endure?
How many more garlands of grief shall I string
with tears wound into each knot?
I can bear it no longer—this mortal fever!


Go now, settle yourself down,
when weariness comes, take a little rest,
if hunger strikes, eat something—
everything's ready for you, after all!
Then why this endless delay?


Sit down, spread your few belongings,
I know that's all you have!
Sir, drowning in books all day long—
when do you ever remember me?


Tell me, do I even cross your mind!
I love you, so whatever you say, I understand and smile!
Such an ocean of books—when you're submerged there,
where do I exist in that vastness?
Sometimes how I long just to know!


Always buried in those books,
night falls and your reading frenzy grows,
while my lonely heart yearns only
to hear your voice a little—what becomes of that?
Tell me, where shall I go?


I write so many letters each day, pester you so,
why don't you understand that I too wait
in hope of just one letter from you!


Are you saying now, enough of this melodrama!
Ah, I'm drowning in this heaven of books, and
you're there fussing over some silly letter?


Yes, I know—with you, everything's always right!
And when I do anything, it's always wrong!
Listen, reading all this poetry,
novels too—why don't you write me anything?
What's the point of all that reading, tell me?


Will you ever write me a poem...in your own hand?
Or give me a story, even a tiny one—will you?
Won't you give me anything? So utterly miserly!
Fine, don't give me anything! Just keep it all for yourself!
And sit by that cooling stone and burn—that's enough!