The Night and the Poet

The Night

Why do you roam about in my moonlight, So worried, Silent as a flower, drifting like perfume?

Perhaps you are a jeweller Dealing in the pearls that are called stars, Or are a fish that swims in my river of light;

Or a star that has fallen from my brow, And, having forsaken the heights, Now resides in the depths below.

The strings of the violin of life are still; My mirror reflects life as it sleeps.

The eye of the vortex too is sleeping In the depths of the river; The restless wave hugs the shore and is still.

The earth, so busy and bustling, Slumbers as though no one lived on it.

But the poet’s heart is never at peace— How did you elude my spell?

The Poet

I sow pearls in the soil of your moon; Hiding from men, I weep like dawn.

I am reluctant to come out in the busy day, And my tears flow in the solitude of night.

The cry pent up inside me, Whom should I get to hear it, And to whom can I show my burning desire?

Lying on my chest the lightning of Sinai sobs: Where is the seeing eye—has it gone to sleep?

My assembly-hall is dead like the candle at a grave. Alas, night! I have a long way to go!

The winds of the present age are not favourable to it: It does not feel the loss it has suffered.

The message of love, When I can no longer keep it to myself, I come and tell it to your shining stars.