Those who are saints, monks or dervishes can live alone;
Leaving men, dwelling in Heaven is not a poet’s work.
May be, innumerable miscreants are among the flow of men;
Still I float on that flow touching these men.
Men are my brothers in all countries, religions and languages
And women my sisters. This small planet of men
Are replete with sin and virtue, sorrow and happiness, frustration and hope.
Loyalty and revolt whirl again and again round these men.
It is all of men; no one is angel here.
In their bodies, there lies the smell of soil, not of Heaven.
Day and night I go on writing their words in my song
And I go on wreathing the garland of rhythm and rhyme with their names.
Men are my brothers and women my sisters;
I am a small poet of the world only for them.
