"The Torn Collar Shirt"

The torn collar shirt,
which had stood by through everything,
is now thrown away.

Yet it still lingers,
used as a mop.

Like an old grandfather
lying on the charpoy
in the corridor,
standing guard over the house.
He wards off strangers, monkeys, dogs,
but no sound comes from his mouth;
only a whisper slips forth.

(From my collection of old poems)

Silent River*

The river flows in whispers,
Past the stones that knew my name,
Carrying fragments of old songs,
And memories that will never stay the same.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gaze,
I wander through the corridors of night,
Where shadows speak in gentle haze,
And hearts converse beyond the sight.

Time bends, yet refuses to break,
Moments linger in the silent air,
Every choice, every small mistake,
Becomes a star in the cosmic glare.

So let me drift with the river’s hymn,
Between the worlds of dream and awake,
Where life is fleeting, edges dim,
And every breath a vow I take.

What’s the matter?
Today you sit quietly.
Shall I say something nice,
that’s why I sit silently.

Seeing the poverty of a poor man
pity rises,
sympathy stirs,
the heart grows restless.

A wish is born
to reach out,
to do something
for him.

Because he too
is a man,
in the fragile skin
of human beinghood.

But by the time
the twenty-first century arrived,
he had grown cunning—

how to cheat the passer-by,
how to trouble the neighbor,
how to seize the resources of the state,
and if not,
how to ruin it
for his own amusement.

Instead of becoming a good citizen,
he learns to be selfish,
to move through society
like a shadow of opportunism.

Now, his poverty
stirs no pity,
only fear—
and a curse also slips
from the lips.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.

How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down,
Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.