Truth Like Poetry: 2

One. The one I love
is far away today.

Yet except for that one
nothing else remains close.

The beloved doesn't live here,
lives far away.
I too don't live here,
live far away.

Two. What I touched with my eyes,
I touched even more with my heart,
... none of which you understood!

Yes, this is how it was meant to be!

Three. The king who is not written on your forehead—
if you weep constantly hoping to be his queen,
then know for certain,
you will lose the one
who could easily become a king,
if only you would be his queen.

Four. The one whose rudeness
makes me block him
returns
with a fake ID;
comes to my wall
showing his hot temper.

I watch and think,
the poor soul is not only
rude,
but shameless too!

Five. Sometimes,
even flowers bloom with great caution;
so carefully...
as if blooming itself
were the greatest sin!

They think,
if only they could die
while still in bud,
then there'd be no fear
of being trampled!

It's beauty's sin
that seals the flower's fate
beneath the sole!

Six. The ice cream
you saved in the fridge
thinking you'd eat it later—
I devoured it
last night at midnight.

What's the point
of keeping ice cream
so freezing cold
when it waits
on tongue, lips, teeth
to melt and gradually
grow warm?

Forgive me.
Thank you—
the ice cream
was wonderful!

Seven. To see anything truly
first you must know about it.
You must look at it for a long time;
and most crucial of all:
you must place yourself exactly where
what I truly want to see resides.

Only those can see green with full eyes
who can bind themselves within that green.
To feel God
you must know how to keep God in your heart.
To enjoy silence
you must first silence yourself.

Those walking in search of peace,
let them keep themselves only where
peace can be found.
Can you ever keep yourself peaceful
while staying far from the source of peace?

Eight. Not here anymore!
Not with this inhuman being anymore!
How much humiliation, how much suffering can one bear?

The path back always remains open!
After abandoning everything,
today the time has come to abandon life itself!
Can one live this way? How much longer?

Suddenly the child's sleep breaks.
Suddenly all her plans fall apart.

This suddenness happens every day!

Nine. If I can't tell someone
I love
even on some cloudy afternoon,
then what's the difference
between me and a tree?

Yes, there is a difference!
Though both have life,
I can walk,
which the tree cannot.

Ten. Whatever I lose,
I guard
with the greatest care.

What will never return,
I bring back every day,
leaving everything behind, again and again.

Whatever new wants to come,
I don't even turn toward it,
clinging to the old.

That's why I remain alone,
even what isn't mine,
whatever I keep takes the shape of the past.

Eleven. People can be known by their tears.
In every drop of tears lies
the account of all human virtue.

When sleep breaks at night and the jackals' council begins,
then silently falls
the sigh of past virtue, the penance of uncommitted sin.

In the gaps of the mosquito net gets caught
the history of each night.
There, at immeasurable distance, sit frozen
so many useless dreams, the pollution of failure!

People can be known by the way they swallow their tears.
In tears upon tears clings the maternal identity of anguish.

Twelve. Show as much as you love.
If you can't show it,
then withdraw, don't force your heart.

It doesn't work that way.
Whoever will understand, will understand.
If they don't understand, then
don't try to hold them back.
You'll fail, and pointless quarrels with life will increase.

Love is not some volunteer fair.
Even if you don't get to taste life's flavor
before climbing the pyre, don't beat your chest and weep
for not finding love.
You couldn't live like everyone else,
but you can die like everyone else!
Isn't this enough?

What good does it do
for one who found no love to weep?
Who will wipe away their tears?

When no one came,
what good would it do
if you dried up and died in solitude?

Give your eyes rest,
keep your lips at rest.
At the time of death, eyes are needed to close them!
Before death, lips are needed to moisten them!

Thirteen. An entire life passed in oblivion!
The way you speak, the way you laugh, the way you love—
none of it appears in my notebook of writing.

What you keep saying,
what you keep doing,
what you keep guarding,
what you keep in mind—
none of it matters
in my own living.

When you cry, I see
the salt in your tears
is unfamiliar to me.

Whose tears hold
nothing of mine—
life passes with them!

The house where I live,
from that very house
I keep saving myself.
Can one live being so careful?

This way of living!
Having to return to that shelter
where I never return at all.

I grab my own throat and squeeze.
Then I give opinions about
how life is passing, what life means, how beautiful life is...
and so many other things!

Fourteen. In sunshine, sunshine
all the leaves
build relationships.

One slice of sun
leaving one leaf
for another.

Leaf to leaf
friendship spreads
on threads of sunlight.

In this world
whatever exists,
only friendship
survives.

Wind to wind
sunlight sways,
tree to tree
the roll of dense weaving.

On leaves and branches
distance breaks
in light's clothing—
slice by slice of sun.

Fifteen. Sometimes
I enter my mind.
I see you're not there.

Sometimes
I enter my brain.
I see I'm not there.

Sometimes
I enter life.
I see life isn't there.

Sometimes
I enter death.
I see no one is there.

Then I think,
who am I with, then?

Sixteen. A fragment of life.
A fragment of river.
An afternoon of being alone.
This is me!

Returning all the world's
forms, flavors, scents,
I live with myself.

I am a small bit of human,
needing little space
to exist.
Yet no one has room
to keep me.

Actually I'm not alone,
I stay entwined with myself.
I'm not unique either,
I'm just like other solitary people.

One who is alone is nothing special.
The solitary are all alike,
and they all believe
they're different from everyone else.

Those around me—
I belong to none of them,
none of them belongs to me.
I am alone in the crowd of people...

Seventeen. Sorrow writhes to be born,
joys retire to die before their time.
In those labor pains some excuses gather,
how effortlessly heaps of suffering pass!

The world's boundaries have changed perhaps,
that's why today the path of escape
has lost itself along the way.

All the rage of this life of mine
comes and remains as water in time's ice.

Today I become shadow and die searching for shadows.

Eighteen. To leave so suddenly like that!
Suddenly old affection, habits, joy all stopped!
I kept sinking into deep soundlessness.
Along that sinking path I had scattered
stones of sorrow, so I could return.

From somewhere a fierce water current came, and immediately
every piece of stone floated away somewhere.
How do I return now?

I can no longer recognize myself.
Even the last traces of my face
are lost today!

Nineteen. One who stays bound tight in daily habit—
people abandon them
for that new pull, whose source lies
against society, in the opposite current.

The old person gets no rice,
the new person eats biryani.

Whether this is illusion or happiness's real home—
thinking little about this, people finally
surrender to the secret lap of the new, even if
that new isn't worth even a nail of the old!

Twenty. Returns. They return again and again.
Not the way people return home after work when evening falls,
not the way birds return to nests to shed the day's fatigue,
not that way, not at all that way.

They return as enchantment,
they return as memory,
they return as shadow.

When light dawns,
when light dies,
whether darkness cares
for light or not,
they return.

I hear their footsteps on the floor.
I catch their scent in the window's breeze.
I find the map of their body in the bedsheets.
In sun rain winter I feel their touch so clearly.

Today everything is erased.
Everything past, everything gone.
Still they return exactly
as enchantment, as comfort, as refuge.