Immortal and undecaying these poems, I know, will die one day;
One day all fame and immortality will fall flat among the debris.
The Himalayas, the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China
Will be flying in the air like the light dry skins of onions.
The eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned;
Upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars
Will be falling down ceaselessly. Alas! Where will be lost
For ever science, technology, art, literature, music and paintings Earned through thousand years?
When immortal and undecaying these poems will die one day; When all fame and immortality will fall flat one day
Among the debris; when the Himalayas, the Twin Tower
And the Great Wall of China will be flying in the air
like the light dry skins of onions;
When the eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned; when Upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars
Will be falling down ceaselessly; alas, when where will be lost
For ever science, technology, art, literature, music
And paintings earned through thousand years; that day, o God,
Pour down those poems into my soul, listening to which,
All the nymphs and inhabitants of Paradise will start dancing
In joy.
I walk bearing such a soul which plays like a flute,
Sings like a cuckoo, runs stirring murmuring sounds
Like a spring and dances unfolding its feathers
Like a pea-cock. If I were not submerged utterly
into the darkness of the worldly life, my soul
Would play such a way, your sky would start trembling;
It would sing such a way, the passers-by would remain
Standing by speechless; it would run stirring murmuring sound
Such a way, poems after poems would fall down into the souls
Of the poets; and it would dance unfolding its feathers
Such a way, the eyes of the beauty-lovers would be dazzled
In wonder. My soul is, as it were, a cuckoo that has mistakenly Entered a city; it sings songs but the outcry
Of the machine-monsters does not let them enter
The ears of lords and ladies.
