In the Duel of Emotions

 
 Sometimes, the self within me does such strange things!
 It calls to some other self outside, builds friendship.
 That 'self' comes, but doesn't stay.
 Comes and comes, yet can't be kept.
 In some reluctance, turning back, it says,
 "Then you won't truly let me stay?
 This coming and going is my fate?
 Does the inner place find its match outside, alas?"
 I listen, and think,
 "You said you existed, then?
 Were you never there at all?
 You exist—in this delusion time passes, untimely?
 You know, even a trace of such doubt never came before! You became such an actor!
 Does such acting come from a hundred births of merit? Or from sin?"
 In some infinite compression
 that 'self' says nothing at all.
 For some people, at certain times,
 all the world's languages become powerless,
 stand motionless, rivaling the banyan tree.
 At such moments, nothing else—waiting even for a single letter, how utterly helpless it can make one, who understands!
  
 From imagination to reality? Or reality to imagination?
 Which path does life take?
 That hours would pass in this conflict too, I hadn't thought before.
 In reality's weariness imagination also drowses, and
 leaving the application for leave on the table, it runs, flees—
 lest I say 'no'!
 Imagination's arrogant retort revels in reality's assault and mockery.
 These days I don't say 'no' anymore. Companions become
 lifeless eyes, unconscious mind, motionless body.
 What summons can there be in a gaze whose life is gone?
 A mind bound in stone doesn't dream, doesn't make others dream.
 Body-touched reality throttles mind-touched imagination!
  
 Do I understand nothing, or understand?
 If someone stays well thinking this, let them!
 The mind's desire is fierce; I admit, the body's too.
 Those who don't love me, I can make them love too.
 But those who deceive, how do I draw them close? By what spell? In what hope?
 One can walk with a deceiver at most. Is it possible to stay?
 I may act the fool, but I'm not one anymore!
  
 I war much with myself, did before too.
 That war was to hold on, this war is to let go.
 Alas, in both I'm the one at the blade's edge!
 I'm fighting this war, and will continue.
 As long as I can, as much as I can, however I can.
 I'll leave, and never return. That's good too!
 Who sees the breath that keeps us alive each moment?
 The sky that touches all of me is beyond even my touch.
 Only the selfishly embodied stay close to the heart, others live in causeless contempt and irritation.
 Living to return? Or returning to live?—in this riddle how lovingly I call the time-thief!
  
 At night, intermittently, violin notes come floating...
 Who floats that mournful tune? Or is this mere delusion?
 I want to call someone to find out.
 I call. Alas! No one is there!
 The earth and air of the realm of absence grow heavy for no reason.
  
 Why do tears of sorrow fall through the eyes?
 Even wiping away water's traces, the history can't be erased! It remains eternal.
 Does anyone understand this?
 Eyes are as easy to see as they are hard to understand! How many people see, where are those who understand?
 In time's boat, I cross the sky star by star,
 to some, this is love, to others perhaps mere madness, maybe just foolishness!
 Let them say what they will, I know this one survival is living in darkness!
 Let all the sorrows of one life mingle in the scent of burnt paper!
 In this birth let me live burning, in that birth I'll burn to live.—I promise for certain!
  
 Giving or taking love—both are strange kinds of cruelty.
 Some understand this truth, some don't, some understand but don't understand.
 This night my mind and that cockroach's body—both awake, both restless, therefore, both the same!
 Relationships—some give names, some give life. Both sides burn in pain.
 If a name is held only in one mind, that relationship brings tears.
 Life that flows to be only one life takes away life itself.
 Let life be false, yet let everything in life live being true—in this understanding
 every nanosecond too gives centuries of torment. In time's merciless audacity
 for someone—be it the wrong person, still, for that someone
 the pain of not being able to break the stubborn wall of feelings accumulated within...
  
 I understand well, the mind will now take revenge on the body itself.
 Let it, still, I won't go back again.
 When feelings unworthy of their object, their vessel, take hold
 great sin occurs. In such sin, even asking forgiveness is sin!
 Rather than one death's life, I'll find life in one life's death!
  
 Let there be no meeting
 let there be no words
 let there be nothing written...
 Still, daily in salt water
 keeping 'them' carefully alive.
 No trace of life, yet this life-life game!
  
 I think, if humans ever truly learned to love, arms dealers too would sell poetry.