Chapter 58 my secret love song

I am ashamed to send my secret love song to your restless mind, lest its meaning and rhyme be overlooked.I will wait until a blessed time of that sympathetic night, when your eyes have sunk in a gentle twilight, and my voice has reached you in the deep stillness of truth. From my whispers I will turn my secrets round and round in the silent corner of your heart, like a cricket spinning its chirping monophonic rosary in the night's string of beads in the silent sala grove. Forgive me, girl of the next century, if in my arrogance I imagine that you are reading my poems, the moon also fills the gaps in my poems with silent drizzle.

I seem to feel the beating of your heart, and I hear you croon, "If he were alive today and we met, he would love me." I know you say to yourself, "Let me be here only tonight Light some lamps for him on my verandah, though I know he'll never come." Half asleep on the shore, you fear the sound of the hurricane as he vibrates his "no" in your ear.You had told each other that the coast had its riches, and the house its comforts, when suddenly the storm gnashed his gleaming teeth and roared "No." But I made the hurricane my partner I left my shores and my ship tossed and tossed at sea.I put my trust in the Dreadful One, and with his breath I sailed my sails and filled my heart with his assurance that the shore is there.He called to me, "You're a vagabond as I am myself, and the victory is yours." Everything was broken to pieces and blown away by the wind, and the coward whispered in desperation "The end is here."

The Hurricane cries, "Only that which is fully delivered shall be preserved." Trusting him I move forward, and I do not look back when the waves carry away what has been accumulated.I played the traveler's flute to the tune of his wild laughter, and it sang: "Let's go with the charm of desire, with the strong shackles, with the old achievements and meaningless hopes."For your drums learn the rhythms of the dance that crashes on the shore.Walk with greed and terror and the banner of tyrants raised by slaves.Come, Holy Destroyer, drive us from our homes and our safe paths.

Come with the fluttering of your death, and spread your roaring "No" on the wind.No rest, no weariness, no burden of weakness. Knock on the door of the miser.Scatter that gray and moldy hoard, throw away that cave-seeking "unsureness," and let your trumpet blast your roaring "No" in the wind. 72 Woman, you have sweetened my wandering days with beauty, and accepted me close to you with simple kindness, just as the unknown star welcomed me with a smile when I gazed at the southern night alone on the verandah when. From above came a voice: "We know you, because you are like our guest from infinite darkness, our guest of light."

In this great voice you still call to me: "I know you." Even if I don't understand your language, woman, I have heard in your music, - "In this world you are always our guest, poet, guest of love." The skeleton of an animal lay pale on the grass. Its dry bones - the grim smile of Time - cried to me: Your end, proud man, is like that of a cow that no longer grazes, because when the wine of your life has been poured to the last drop, you are cast away in the last unrequited love. I cried out and answered: My life isn't just a bankrupt bone that pays for that board and gets poor.Never in my life will I be filled with what I think and feel, what I get and give, what I hear and say.

My thoughts often cross the edge of "time" - will it finally stop forever at the boundary of broken bones? Flesh can never measure the truth that is myself; days and hours cannot decay it with their treads; the wayside robbers, the dust, dare not plunder all its possessions.Death, I refuse to accept from you that I am nothing more than a gigantic joke of God, an annihilation of a void made of all the riches of the "infinite." She left me the flowers of smiles and took the fruits of my pain.She clapped her hands and laughed and said she had won. With mad eyes at noon, I opened the basket to find the flowers dead.

75 Call him not to your house, the dreamer who walks alone by your roadside at night.His speech was with a foreign accent, and the tune on his monochord was strange.You needn't make a seat for him; he won't go till daybreak.For he was invited to the banquet of liberty to sing of the newborn light.The rhythm of festival music floats in the air. This is not the time for me to sit still and contemplate.The branches of Albizia julibrissin tremble with the excitement of approaching flowering, and the caress of dew covers the forest.On the fairy net of Linjing, light and shadow feel each other.

The long grass sends laughing waves to the sky in its flowers. I stare at the horizon, looking for my lines. Who is that prisoner in you that is sad and longing for the light?His harp is silent, though the breath of life circulates in the air; he sees nothing, though the sky is brightened by the morning light. The birds sing to the woods a song of new awakening, the joy of new birth bursts in the light of the flowers, the night beyond the walls has subsided, but the smoking lamps still burn in the prison. Oh, why is there such a gap between your home and the sky? Fear not, for you shall conquer, your doors shall be opened and your chains shall be broken.You often forget yourself in your sleep, but you have to find your world again and again.

From heaven, from below, and from the earth, there is a call to you to sing joy and sorrow, shame and terror.Leaves and flowers, and falling water, ask your notes to chime with their notes, and darkness and light tremble in the rhythm of your poetry. Chenguang mourns for parting sorrow. Poet, take up your harp! So be it, if you must go, go, and leave your song to the flowers in the autumn of dew.Such a morning will come from the golden horizon of the east with frangipani flowers. On the garden avenue, weary with the singing of the doves, and soft with the caress of the greenery drunk, this vision of light shall arise again, and her steps clang on the bracelet of your own poetry.

So be it, if you must go away. 80 Fill your eyes with the colors that babble in the stream of Beauty, and in vain will you try to catch it. What you chase with your wishes is phantom, and what stirs the strings of your life is music. The wine drunk at the gathering place of the immortals is immeasurable.It is in the rushing brook, in the flowering tree, in the smile dancing at the corner of the black eye. Enjoy it in freedom. You are a golden gleam of daybreak on the shore of my life, a drop of dew on the first white autumn flower.You are a rainbow in the distant sky over the dust, a dream of a crescent moon setting off white clouds, you are a secret of paradise revealed to the world by chance.You are the vision of my poet, manifested from the day of my forgotten birth, you are the words that were never for words, the freedom that came in the form of chains, for you opened the door for me into the living The bright beauty of beauty.

Forever I seek my self; but how shall I recognize the wanderer that flits through dreams in changing shapes and appearances? I am always in the heart of my own poetry, listening to its voice, but never knowing where it dwells.As time passed, the light and shadow dimmed, and the parting tune from a pedestrian's piano was rippling in the evening wind. What have I done to be so generous, O fair one, my little flower that once had a place in the wreath around your neck? On that day, the eyes of the newly awakened earth are joyful, and the flute, touched by the eternal new, makes the music of the dawn.If this little flower falls to the ground at sunset when the birds are getting tired, let the evening wind blow it away and follow your footsteps across the darkness, don't let it be trampled in the dust when you don't pay attention Bar. 84 Go to the air and feel your relief, O bird, let not your wings become weak.Do not succumb to the lure of the nest, nor to the magic of the night. Did you not feel in your sleep that secret wishes murmured in your dreams, and silent promises revealed like a veil from the face of a pistil in the darkness of dawn's hopes? 85 I have played the flute on the road, I have sung at your door. I have offered my praises before the shadow walls of your temple, adorned with endless shapes.Words of end have come to me everywhere today. They told me to open the lock of the road, through the overlapping endless meeting and parting to go to the farther coast of pilgrimage. Let the chains of my shackles ring with every step of your dance, O God of dance, let my heart wake in the freedom of the eternal sound. Let it feel the touch of the footsteps that always make the rosette of the god of poetry tremble, and have maddened the atmosphere of all ages with its fragrance. At the beat of your dance rebellious atoms tame into form, sun and planets - anklets of light - spin around your moving feet, and, for ages, all things struggle to emerge from their dark slumber Waking up, passing through the pain of life, into Realization, your ocean of bliss wells up with the tumult of pain and joy. Before I leave, dye my heart with your color in private, the color of youthful smile, the color of eternal sorrow in tears. Let it color my thoughts, my actions, the flame of my night-lamp, and the hours of my mid-night awakening. Before I go, lift up my heart with your whirling footsteps, which waken the stars from the night, unleashed streams from grottoes, and gave voice to the whirl of clouds in thunderstorms,—this It is the swirling dance that makes the center of existence flat, swaying in an endless cycle of motion.Early winter spreads her veil over the stars in the middle of the night, and a call comes from the depths, "Man, bring out your lamp." The woods are empty of flowers, the birds have stopped singing, and the grass by the river Flowers fell. Come, Diwari, wake up the hidden flame from the lonely darkness, and sing symphonic praises to the eternal light!The starlight is dark and the night is unhappy, and the call comes from the depths, "Man, take out your lamp." 88 The world today is maddened by the stupor of hatred, and the conflict is cruel and painful. Its path is crooked, and its greedy shackles are entangled. All creatures call for your new birth, O you of infinite life, ① Festival of Lights. ——Translator Save them, let out the everlasting voice of your hope, and let the lotus flower of love, containing the wealth of infinite honey, open its petals in your light.O Majesty, O Freedom, in Thy infinite mercy and goodness wipe away all the black spots from the hearts of this world.You, the Giver of the Immortal Gift, give us the power of renunciation to take back our pride from us. In the radiance of rising wisdom, let the blind see. Let life be thrown into the dead soul.O Majesty, O Freedom, in Thy infinite mercy and goodness wipe away all the black spots from the hearts of this world.Man's heart suffers from uneasy fever, from the poison of selfishness, from endless hunger and thirst.The vast number of countries have the mark of blood-red hatred on their foreheads.Touch them with your right hand, make them one in spirit, and bring the rhythm of harmony and beauty into their lives.Oh, majesty, Oh, freedom, with your boundless mercy and kindness wipe away all the black spots from the heart of this world. Why deprive me of my right to be a woman, my fate!That with my own mighty strength to bravely conquer the best rewards of life, instead of looking into space, waiting for the chance that chance floats to me bears with it the withered fruit of a patient, melancholy day? Send me mercilessly to the treasure behind the fortified camp, and risk everything I have. Never will I steal into the nuptial chamber with bracelets creaking in the dark evening, but run recklessly to love's mortal adventure, by the stormy sea, where the madness of its storm shall rip off my face The shy maiden's veil, in the ominous shriek of seabirds my call can reach my warrior - you are mine alone. We both lie deep in the darkness of sleep; the time to wake up awaits your last word.Turn your face towards me, use your tearful glances to make parting sorrow forever beautiful. The morning will appear with its morning star in the lonely distant sky. The sorrows of parting nights are bound to the strings of my harp, and the lost brilliance of love shall remain woven in my visions. Open with your own hands the door that leads to the final parting. 91 Bring back to this nation that blessed name that makes the land of your birth holy to all! Let your great enlightenment under the bodhi tree be fulfilled, pull away the unreasonable veil and let your memory bloom freshly in India in a forgotten residual night!Bring life to the demented mind, the light of your life! Let the air come alive with your inspiration!Let the locked door open, and the resounding conch announces your arrival at the gate of Bharata.Let the gospel of immeasurable love proclaim your call through the voices of a billion.I wake up again in the middle of the night, and the world is opening all its petals, ① that is the old name of India. ——Translator This is an endless surprise. The great isle sank unnamed into the abyss, the last gleam of the stars was plundered, and for countless generations lost all its burdens.The conqueror of the world fades into the shadow of a name behind a dark story, and great nations raise their towers of victory like offerings to the starving dust.It is an endless wonder that my brow is cleansed of light amidst this heap of discarded things.I stand with thousands of stars and the Himalayas day after day. Here I am, where the frenzied dance of the "terrible" in the turbulent waves is in harmony with his loud laughter. On this, centuries shine and sink, and crowns like waves leave only their signatures on this old bark, and here, another day, I am allowed to sit in its ancient shade, an endless surprise.Seen from afar you seem huge in your mysterious majesty of terror. With a beating heart I stand before you.Your frown heralds the sudden, rumbling blow of malice in a growl.My bones shattered and I bowed my head for the final rage to come. it comes. I wonder, is this all the threats?You look very burly with your weapon held high.Come down on the ground where I prostrate and strike me.You suddenly became smaller and I stood up.Since then I have had pain but no terror.You are as great as death, but your victims are greater than death. My heart leisurely flows along with the Lotus River in the far sky. The Lotus River is the name of the section of the Ganges that passes through Bangladesh.In his early years, the poet often went boating on the Lianhua River to visit his homeland. ——The translator goes.On her opposite bank stretches the sandy beach, aloof, defiant in its majestic desolation. There are bamboos, mango trees, and old banyan trees here; the ruined huts; the giant trunks of lotus leaf trees; the mustard garden on the slope of the pond; the sugarcane field beside the ditch; , rows of casuarinas whisper in the abandoned garden day and night. The clan people lived close to this rugged shore that split into zigzags, and made a small pasture for their goats; stare. The whole village stood trembling in fear of the unforgiving waters. The proud river bears her name in ancient books; in her veins runs the holy stream of the Ganges. She is always cold and indifferent.She did not acknowledge, but only tolerated her surrounding premises; the majestic silence of the mountains and the vast solitude of the sea were reflected in her majesty. Once I found her moored on the slope of an island in her seclusion, away from all worldly affairs. I open my eyes before the morning star shines, and I sleep on the roof where the seven immortals shine. The indifferent stream flows by my lonely days, like a traveler who passes by the mourning and joy of the houses on the roadside, but feels nothing. Now, in the dying days of my youth, I go out to this plain, gray and treeless, with only a solitary dot left, the village of Xandar under the tall green shade. I have the Little Cubai River as my neighbor.She has a family background.Her rustic name was confounded with the gossip and chatter of countless ages of Xandar village women. In her closeness to the village, there is no discord between land and water, and she easily transmits the words of one side to the other.The flax-flowering fields were as casually accessible to her as the rice seedlings. When the road suddenly turned at her water's edge, she graciously let pedestrians step over her clear and gurgling water. Her speech is the speech of Xiaojia, not the language of scholars.Her rhythm is the same as the land and the water, and her flowing waters have no envy for the green and yellow riches of the earth. Her figure, slender and graceful, flitted through light and shadow, and she danced lightly, clapping her hands. In rainy days her hands and feet became wild, like village girls drunk with mahu, but even when she was intemperate, she never broke or drowned her near shore; only when she laughed and ran sweeping the shore with the teasing dance of her skirts. At mid-autumn her waters cleared, her streams thinned, revealing the pale gleam of the grains of sand beneath.Her poverty did not shame her, for her wealth was not arrogant, nor her poverty stingy. In different moods, they bring their own virtues, just like a girl sometimes dancing surrounded by pearls and emerald greens, sometimes sitting quietly hiding tired eyes and smiling affectionately. ①Cubai is a small river not far from the lonely village where the poet lives. ——Translator Kubayihe found in the pulse the same rhythm as my verse, the rhythm that partners with the language rich in music and the noisy trivialities of daily working hours. Its rhythm does not disappoint the boy wandering around with a bow and arrow; it is in tune with the sound of carts loaded with straw in the firewood market; It moved in step with the weary pace of the village schoolteacher who was paid three rupees a month and carried a broken umbrella. An old man from the inland, thin and tall, with a newly-shaved and wrinkled face like a dried fruit, slumped on the road to the town wearing a pair of patched boots and a short calico jacket, with a brace on his head. with a broken umbrella. A bamboo stick was held under his arm. It was a sweltering August morning, with dim sunlight filtering through light clouds. "Last night" seemed to be smothered under the damp black felt: today's dull wind stimulates the intermittent echoes of the leaves of emblica. This stranger crosses the dim horizon of my mind, just a human being, not distinct, without care, without need of any tiny thing. I, too, appeared momentarily on the fringe of the no man's land of his life, in that cloud that separates the individual from all relationships. I pictured him with a cow in the barn, a parrot in the cage, his wife with a bracelet on her arm grinding wheat, he had a laundryman as his neighbour, and there was a grocer across the alley from which he owed An annoying debt from a Peshawarian, and my dim self is just a passerby somewhere. Though I know, my friends, that we are not the same but my heart refuses to bear the word. Because we wake up to the birdsong of the same sleepless night, and the same spell of spring enters our hearts.Though your face was toward the light and mine was in the shadows our tryst was sweet and secret, for the flood of youth drew us together in its swollen dance. You rule the world with your radiance and tenderness, and my face is pale.But a noble breath of life brings me to you The black line that divides us is burned red by the bright light of dawn. A thousand-year-old tulle hangs between you and me When you turn your face and fade away In the "past" is where people who lost love's path out of shyness and hesitation live like ghosts. The space that separates us is very narrow——a stream weaves in its whispers the memories of our parting time and the sadness of your footsteps.All I can offer you is the music of an unspoken love to die with you. In the twilight of dawn, Ramananda, the great Brahmin master, stood in the holy waters of the Ganges, waiting for the cleansing waters to flood his heart. He wondered why the water didn't come this morning. As the sun rose, he prayed to the Light to bless his thoughts and unfold his life toward truth. But his heart was still dark and troubled. The sun climbed through the Salvador forest, the fishing boats spread their sails, and the nurse went to the market with the milk jug on her back. The guru came out of the water and walked among the reeds on the sandy bank, while chirping orioles were busy digging their nests on the bank slope. He walked to the smelly village that led to the cobblers, lean dogs gnawed bones by the side of the road, and kites swooped down on the accidentally thrown pieces of meat. Parkin was sitting under the old tamarind tree by his door, making camel saddles. When he saw the grand master come out and walk into this unclean nearby village, he shrank back in awe, and the white old master fell to the ground from a distance. Ramananda pulled him to his chest, and Pakin's eyes filled with tears, and he cried out in pain, "Master, why did you make yourself so unclean!" The Master said: "When I went to bathe, I despised your village, so my heart was not blessed by the motherly love of the Ganges for all beings. "When your body touched mine, and her caress reached me at last, I was purified. "I called out to the sun this morning, 'The Holy One that is in you is also in me, but why did I not reach you in my heart?'" When His light falls on your forehead and mine, I I have already met him, and I don't need to go to the temple to worship today. " I neglected to praise your worth because I blindly affirmed my possessions. Day and night keep sending your offerings to my feet. Out of the corner of my eye I watched them being delivered to my warehouse. The honeysuckles of April sweeten your offerings, and the full moon of autumn evenings shines upon them. You often pour your wavy black hair on my lap and say with tears in your eyes: My offering to you, my king, is pitifully small; I can give you no more, for I have nothing to give.Days and nights have passed and today you are no longer here. At last I came and opened my storehouse, and took up the chain of jewels which thy own hands gave me about my neck.My former indifferent pride kissed your footprints in the dust.I truly won you today because I paid the price of your love with my sorrow. The Shandar woman hurried up and down the sandy path under the kapok tree; a rough gray sari wrapped tightly around her dark, strong, slender body; Fireworks fluttered in the wind like a fiery red spell. Which absent-minded god of design, molding a blackbird out of July clouds and lightning, must have suddenly, unconsciously, fashioned the image of this woman; her excited wings hidden in her body , her light footsteps have both a woman's walk and a bird's flight. A few lacquer bracelets were looped around her beautifully molded arms, a basket of loose sand was placed on her head, and she flew across the red sand path under the kapok tree. The winter of nostalgia has completed its mission.The accidental breath of the south is already flirting with the sternness of the winter moon.The leaves on the golden winter bushes have been tinged with brilliant withered gold.The emblical grove is dotted with ripe fruit, where rowdy children gather to snatch it.Piles of fallen leaves and sand are dancing ghostly with the uncertain wind. The construction of my mud hut has started, and the workers are busy laying the walls.The distant sound of the siren announced the passing of the train at the crossing of the railway, and the jingle of bells was also heard from the school next door. I sat on the verandah and watched the young woman toil hour after hour.When I feel that this woman's service is sacredly destined for those she loves, and that its dignity, defiled by market prices, has been plundered by me with the help of a few copper coins, my heart is deeply moved. shame. At the dawn of the first dawn of the human century, shrouded in mythical mist, those seekers walked on strange shores with amazed eyes, and the fighters marched to the endless distance on the boundless battlefield to the drums of the storm god. time marches. The earth trembles under the constant trampling of the endless pursuit, the mid-night sleep is disturbed, and the comfortable life becomes pain and death becomes precious.Those who are driven out by the road will always walk beyond the boundaries of death, and those who are entangled with their families are doomed to be closed forever in the rigid life of the soulless world. Who was that man, who must have been charmed by the dull tranquility and the dull, stinking security, who foolishly chose Ghost Country for his hideout?In the beginning, people found themselves on the forked road of existence. The rations he received on the road were in his blood, in his dreams, on his way. When he sits to plan, He lifts his castle up to the clouds Its foundations fall; He builds dikes Only to let it be swept away by the flood. Again and again in his drowsy banquet hall, asleep in the smoky dim light, until a nightmare attack chokes him and brings his rattling bones together He dies Waking up with groans of pain.A sudden awakening can always move him forward From the fences of the old age to the endless horizon, an impulse urges him to escape from the shackles of conceited success Reminding him, the triumphal pillar on the chariot of "Time" Have buried the Pillars beneath their nameless ruins. He hastened to join the destructive armies of the ages, over mountains, smashing stone walls, and breaking through iron gates, while the sky beat with the drums of Eternity. In the twilight early days of that chaotic age, when God raged at his own handiwork and shook his head vigorously at his own childish efforts, a wave of restlessness snatched you from the bosom of the East, Africa, shut you in the dark tree To contemplate silently within the tightly guarded fence. In your deep dark burrows you slowly accumulate the incomprehensible mysteries of the wilderness, study the unreadable symbols of earth and water; Magic ritual. Thou art crippled to mock the dreadful that terrorizes thee in imitation of a mighty roar to vanquish terror. Oh, you are the swarthy phantom that hides beneath a black veil that obscures your human majesty to shame. Those hunters who stalk you with their stalkers have sharper fury than your wolf's teeth, and darker pride than your sunless forest. The savage greed of civilized people strips the shameless inhumanity naked. You wept, and your howls were stifled, and your forest paths were muddy with blood and tears, while the spiked boots of the brigands left an indelible stamp on your shameful history.But beyond the sea there are always church bells ringing in their cities and villages, and babies sleep in their mother's arms, and poets sing their hymns of beauty.When the sun sets on the western horizon today, the sky is filled with a storm of dust, when animals crawl out of their dens and roar to announce the death of the day. Come, you poet of the time of death, stand at the door of this robbed woman and beg her forgiveness, in the stupor of the dying continent, let it be a last great word.Let my honor be from you, that I answer your call to urgent work with aching pride. Drive me not into stupor's sleep; shake me out, curled up in the dust, from the shackles that bind our hearts and make our destiny worthless; Liberate from the stupor beneath our feet; smash our long-lived humiliation, and lift our heads to the endless sky, to the radiant light, to the free air. Entangled in the web of countless gazes, drawn into a vortex of sound, this man of renown. Oh, he has lost his rank among those who have the privilege of not knowing their own birthday, and who the world does not appreciate him, like a leaf that trembles on a branch and falls unheeded In the dust. In the crowd of the cold prison where he dwelt a chain of honor was forever tinkling about his hands and feet.Have pity on him, and release him into the world of clean light, green shade and sweet silence, in the boundless sands--the primordial play-field of the eternal child.When the ferryboat from the darkness brought him to the ferry on the coast of Xinzhi, he had nothing to hide from the light that touched his naked body as it caresses the open sails in the air.In this dull freedom of the morning the nameless flower blooms in the grass, the spring spreads its golden wings in the boundless leisure, and in the silence of this holiday from a sweet voice his name receives its immeasurable value, its distance The music made him meditate on sleepy afternoons in March. Its date is written today on the shimmering and quivering banyan leaves. He was entertained by the poet of the Lotus River and the light of the morning star passing through the bamboo forest on the river bank. Dense dark clouds spread a purple shadow before his eyes In the rainy distant forest; his eyes followed the footsteps of laughing girls from the green village alleys to the riverside Under the sunset sky blossomed in mustard and linseed The fields enjoyed a duet of colors. He gazed and said, "I love it," and would have left his love, even if his mighty efforts were in vain, and this homage, carrying the wonder of his life, would leave a tribute in the dust of his land. The everlasting memory of contact.You who paint, a constant traveler among people and things, collect them in the net of your phantasy and highlight them in lines far above their social value and market price.The vagabond's village yonder, with its mass of plain roofs, and the empty field behind scorched by the wrathful April sun is something we hurry by and never fail to see Till you travel The lines speak; they are there, we say with astonishment, they are there. Those nameless footsteps vanished into shadows every moment and were rescued from their nothingness. This poem is dedicated to Nanda Vasud, the greatest painter of modern India. ——The translator forces us to admit that the real resonance in them is much greater than the dubious appearance of the princes' waste of money, which is only for those fools to stare blankly. You disregard the mythical horse of Paradise while your eye is drawn to the goat, noticed by our advice as it wanders about our pastures. You express the majesty of the sheep in the lines, and our hearts are awakened in amazement. What the poor sheep dealer does not know is that the picture does not represent the ordinary animal itself, it is a discovery.Behind the infinite secrets of darkness the world of light was pushed out and the destroyer stepped in, rehearsing the building in the depths of my being under a veil of ominous silence.At last the stage is cleared for a new act of the drama of life, when a flaming finger touches a spike of darkness from heaven and a tremor of lightning strikes it to pieces through the boundless sleep. Awakening springs began to flow through the clogged veins—like the first torrent of a June rain seeking its way among the dry riverbeds. Massive shadows blocked the path of light and created chaos—until they were swept away and the newborn spirit freed itself on the bright horizon of peace.This shell of mine which bears the burden of the past--is to me like a weary cloud slipping from the lazy arms of morning. I feel free from its grip In the heart of Emmanuel, on the farthest shore of unreal things. 107A When my heart was released from the black hole of oblivion and awoke to unbearable amazement it found itself near the crater of hellfire belching a breath of choking insults to man; "'s long suicidal pangs followed by a disfigured convulsion worse than death. On one side of it the ferocious and murderous drunken roar of a challenge, on the other a cowardly nation chained to their carefully guarded savings, docile after the impatience of miscalculated outbursts in the silence of reluctant obedience Settled down in safety.Plans and protests in the chambers of the old country are flattened between tight, prudent lips. In this poem and the next one, the poet sees the criminal activities of the fascist bandits, and he arouses the people of the world to prepare to fight against the fascist bandits. — Translator At the same time across the sky the flock of soulless vultures carrying the hungry missiles that salivate at the entrails of man.Give me power, O terrible judge who sits on the throne of eternal life!Give me a voice like thunder, that I may cast curses on the raw man whose hideous hunger spares no women and children, that my words of reprimand may forever shake the history of self-deprecation的脉搏，直到这个时代被扼死被锁住在它的灰烬里找到它最后安息的床榻。 战鼓敲起了。 人们勉强把自己面容扭成可怕的样子咬起自己的牙齿；这首诗讽刺日本帝国主义者在佛寺中祈祷侵华战争得到胜利。——译者在人们跑去为“死亡”的肉库收集人肉以前，他们整队到佛陀，那大慈大悲者的庙宇里，祈求他的祝福，战鼓正在隆隆地敲大地颤抖着。他们祈求成功；因为他们在割断爱结，把旗子插在荒凉的家园的灰烬上，蹂躏了文化中心和“美”的龛座，把他们走过的绿野和闹市的道路用鲜血染红了之后，必定会引起哭泣与哀号，因此他们整队到佛陀，那大慈大悲者的庙宇里，祈求他的祝福，战鼓正在隆隆地敲大地颤抖着。 他们要以凯旋的号角来标点每一千个被杀害的人数，来引起魔鬼的笑乐，当他看到妇孺的血肉淋漓的肢体；他们祈求他们能以“不真”来蒙蔽人们的心灵来毒害神明的甜柔呼吸的气息，因此他们整队到佛陀，那大慈大悲者的庙宇里，祈求他的祝福，战鼓正在隆隆地敲，大地颤抖着。 我的生日！手里拿着“死亡”的护照它从潜跃中浮现在“无”的裂口来到存在的边沿呼吸一会。 从腐朽的链条上散落下过去年月的链环。又用这个最新的生日开始数着新生生命的日子。这款待把今天献上给我，一个过路人，他想默读那一颗不相识的星辰的早晨的记号招呼他走向一段没有图表的旅程，这是被他的生日和死期平分的，和晨星与残月的光明相混的。 我将向他们唱出同样的赞诗，向死亡也向生命。应许我，大地母亲，使我生命中从渴望生出的妄想退却到最远的天边我的肮脏的乞钵把它收集的秽物倒弃在尘埃里；在我向未曾显露的彼岸过渡的时候让我永不向生命筵席的残肴作留恋的回顾。 如今在这日终困睡的暗昏中你鞭策我使我去拉动生命的车辇的你开始一件一件地向我收回你的礼物。你对我的需求渐渐减少你也更少使用我了你在我额上贴上弃置的标签。 这些我都感到了，但是我晓得，你对我一切的侮辱不能把我的价值贬至于无。 让我残废吧，若是你要这样做，从我眼上遮起一切的明光，把我覆盖在残废的阴影里，但是在我存在的破庙里那古老的神佛仍安坐在宝座上。 你尽量破坏还把碎片堆起，但在这废墟中间那内在的一点光明将永远亮亮地燃烧着。因为它受着天酒的哺养那是神人们通过每一声色倾到地上来的。我都爱过他们而且歌颂了这爱。 这爱把我举到高过你的界线，这永存的爱，即使它的语言渐渐微弱为着经常使用而消损。 在我的爱上曾经影印过他们的签名芒果花的花粉，合欢花的露冷的芬馨。唤春在初晓的呢喃和爱人的欢乐的抚触。 当我向你告别的时候，呵，大地，从我收回，细心清点，你给我的一切东西，为生命寄旅的衣食。 你永不要想我小看了你的礼物。 我对这泥土的模型是永远感激的通过它我得到了进入“无形象”的导引。 任何时候我带着一无所求的心来到你的门前，我都曾受到你心的欢迎。 我知道你的礼物是不送给贪婪的人的，你把甘露留存在你的瓦罐里。 不给那淫秽地饥渴的饕餮的嘴唇。 你在等待，呵，大地，带着你的不朽的礼物，来欢迎那走在超然的艰难路上的行人。饕餮渴望着肉食，商人却为腐肉烦恼，今天在他们强暴的闹会中，日夜纠缠在一起。 但是嘲弄引我微笑，像从前一样，对那有学问的人的豪举的愚蠢，对那乞丐的富豪的专横，对那炫耀的可厌的浓妆，对那讽刺人的神性的渎神者的咒骂。 enough.你的凉台上敲着时间终了的钟，我的心响应着告别的叽嘎的开门的声音。 在这黄昏逐渐阴沉的幽暗里，我将收聚起残留的微焰来点起我的将烬的意识，来向你献上最后的顶礼，呵，大地，在七仙星的凝注之下。 我的最后的无声歌曲的香烟我将留下一棵蛟花粉它就要开花，此岸的痛苦的心无望地盼着过渡，爱的自责在它疲倦的记忆里消失到日常工作的帘后了。 在上空，科学的灯光照射着，黑夜忘却了自己，而在地底的黑暗中瘦瘠的饥饿和膨胀的贪婪互相冲击，直到大地震颤凯旋的柱子可怕地断裂了，在湾峡的岸边倾倚着。不要在惊恐中哀呼或者忿怒地批判上帝，让发胀的邪恶在苦痛中迸裂吐出它积藏的肮脏。当吃人的狂怒的受害者被饿齿争拽的时候，让那血浸的亵渎的厌恶激起神圣的愤怒，从一个可怖的最后审判宣达出一个英雄的和平。他们拥挤在教堂里这首诗是诗人寄给捷克李司尼教授的，说出他对于慕尼黑条约的反感。——译者在一个因着恐惧而沉迷的原始狂乱的信仰中它希望把上帝谄媚得心满意足谄媚得柔弱地宽容。 他们半信半疑地觉得和平将降临在这疯狂的地上仅仅为着他们写在圣书上的哀恸。 他们信赖着他们宽忍的上帝他会许给他们以及时的智慧，来对较弱的人们索取所需要的留下他们自己污秽的积聚不再瓜分。但是让我们希望，为着世界上道义公正的庄严，上帝永远不受他的公平被骗的痛苦被那少数操纵的外交的忠顺小心地避免自己一切的损失，一个可怕的忏悔也许必须走到它的最后的结局，在一个奸诈的治好的伤疤上面不留下一点余毒。１１１A通过人类的多难的历史卷来一阵破坏的无知的狂怒文明的高塔倾塌在尘埃里。在道义的无政府的混乱里历代的烈士们英勇地赢得的人类最好的珍宝被掠夺者践踏在脚下。来吧，年轻的国家，宣告保卫自由的战争，举起不可战胜的信仰的旗帜。 用生命修起桥梁跨过被恨恶炸裂的大地，向前行进。 不要自己屈服把侮辱的负担被恐怖踢倒，也不要用虚伪和诡诈来挖掘沟濠为你不名誉的人格这首诗是献给加拿大的，在１９３９年５月２９日渥太华的广播电台上广播过。——译者盖起一个隐蔽所；不要为了拯救自己把弱者当作祭品献给强人。以他们统治者的名义打过他一次的人，又在这世纪出生了。 他们穿着敬神的服装聚集在他们的祈祷堂里，他们号召他们的兵士，“杀、杀”，他们喊着；在他们的怒吼声中夹杂着他们赞美诗的音乐，同时人子正在他的痛苦中祷告说，“呵，上帝，丢掉，远远地丢掉这只盛满最苦的毒汁的苦杯吧。”Ⅳ１１３你曾从你无尽储藏的光明中借一大片给我眼睛；如今在一日之终你来把它收回，我的主人，我准知道我必须好好地利用我的欠负。 但是为什么在我夜灯之前投下阴影？我在世上不过是来到你明光中的一个短期的客人，如果在这丰满的光中有些碎片留下的时候，让它们在你车辇最后的辙迹中不经意地撇下吧。 让我从尘埃中拾起散弃的光和影，一些有色的幻象的微光用来建造起我自己微小的世界，就是对你债负的残余，不值得好好地收集的。在这个伟大的宇宙里痛苦的巨轮旋转着；星斗崩裂；光尘的火花，远远地四溅迅疾地飞散把生存的烦恼包罗在原始的网子里。在痛苦的武库里在通红的意识的架子上满挂着响得叮当的拷打的刑具。 流血的创口张裂着。人的躯体是细小的，他的含辛茹苦的力量多么巨大。在创造和混乱的合流里他为什么在沉醉于自己神威的神人们的可怕的贺宴上，举起他的火灼的酒杯呢，——呵，为什么扫聚这红泪的乱潮来灌满他的泥土的躯壳呢？ 从他的不可征服的意志里他把无尽的价值带给每一段时刻。人的祭献他的肉体上燃烧的苦痛——有什么东西能和日星的整个火热的奉献相比呢？这般勇敢的不屈的财富，这般无畏的坚持，这般视死如归，——像这样的凯旋的行进，千千万万，踏着炭火走向忧伤的极点——在哪一条路上还有这样的追求的，无名的，光辉的这样走在一起的香客？ 这样的礼拜的净水，冲穿火成岩石，这样无边的爱的宝藏？夜深时节在病榻的幻光中呈现了清醒的你，这对我仿佛是数不尽的日月星辰都在保证我微小的生命：等到我知道你要离开我恐怖就伸展到诸天，那“万有”可怕的漠不关心的恐怖。 这一首和１１６、１１８两首，都是描写诗人临危时节，日夜在他床侧守护的人们的。 ——译者她是一个秋夜的仙灵，披着消沉落日的微光，带来星辰的无尽安宁的应许，用她静默的服务引导着勉强之夜的长久留连的时间的疲倦的脚步进入到晨星的郊邻。 她的长发被清晓的柔风吹拂着，透出早祷的烟香，她的日终的含愁的甜柔的脸蒙受晨光的祝福发出了光辉。当我从睡中醒起我发现一筐橘子在我脚边，我正忖想谁能是这礼物的赠予者；我的猜测从这一名字飞到那一名字但是美好的名字，像春花一样的繁多，一切不同的名字联合起来使它成为一件完美的礼物。 １１８在世界无尽的道路上，无数的活动之中，她的性格是分散在一切她所未占有和不完全的之中。 在病榻旁边围绕着一个亲切的目标她像一个新的幻象呈现着她的存在完美了，一切事物的善都集中在她里面，在她的摩触里，在她无眠的忧虑的眼神中。在我痊愈的路上当我领受自然最早的友谊问候的时光，她在我眼前举起无边的最初惊奇的珍贵的礼物。 丛树和蓝天浴在晨光之中虽是古老和已曾相识的向我呈现了在他们里面的创造的永在最初的时间我觉得我的今生是交织在许多变幻形象的降生之中像阳光是不同的光线组成的每一个形样在它的合一里是和无数看不见的形样掺杂着。 今生我赢得了“美”的祝福。在人类爱情的瓶中我尝过他自己的圣酒。忧伤，难以担负的，把不可伤害，不可征服的灵魂指示给我。 在我感到死亡的降临的阴影的一天，我没有恐怖的挫败。 大地的伟大人物没有剥夺了我和他们的接触，他们的不朽的言语曾积累在我的心中。 我曾得到生命之神的恩赐：让我把这记忆留在感谢的语言中吧。 从这一首起的诗（和第１１４首），都是由诗人晚年的私人秘书阿弥耶·查各拉瓦迪译成英文的。——译者浮泛在“时光”悠暇的溪流上我的心移动着，凝注着遥远的太空。在这伟大虚空的道路上影画在我眼前形成世代以来一行列的人以征服的骄傲的速度穿过悠长的“过去”。帝国欲的帕坦人来过了，还有莫卧儿人：胜利的车轮扬起形形色色的尘土；得胜的旗帜翻飞。我望着空虚的路上，今天看不见了他们的遗迹。 那碧空，从早到晚，从世界到世纪，被日出日落的光彩渲染着。在这空虚里，成群结队地沿着铁轨，在喷火的车上，又来了强悍的英国人，散布着他们的活力。 通过他们的道路也将涌过“时光'的洪流卷走这遍地的帝国的密网。他们的军队，带着商品，在星空的空虚路口将不留下一点印记。 当我在这大地上举目四顾，我看见许多群众纷乱的移动着，在分歧的路上三五成群从世纪到世纪，被人类的生和死的日常所需驱策着。他们，永远地打着桨，掌着舵；他们，在田地里，播种，收割。 他们不停地劳动着。 王笏破裂了，战鼓也不再敲；胜利的柱子崩裂，痴呆地忘掉了自己代表的意义；血斑的武器，血红的眼睛和面庞把他们的记录隐藏在儿童的故事书里。他们不停地劳动着；在安伽，在般伽，在羯陵伽的河海的石阶边，在旁遮普，孟买，和古甲拉特。亿万的雷霆般嘈杂的声音日夜交织在一起，形成这伟大世界生活的共鸣。不断的忧伤和快乐夹杂在高唱的生命伟大的颂歌中。在千百个帝国的废墟上，他们不停地劳动着。我时常觉得我离开的时间临近了。以宁静的落日的霞光来遮隔这别离的日子。 让这时间是安宁的，让它是沉默的。不要让任何盛大的纪念会来做出悲伤的情态。 让森林中的树木在别离的门边在沉默的叶丛中唱起大地的宁静的颂歌。让黑夜降下无言的祝福，和七仙星的仁慈的光辉。在我生日的水瓶里从许多香客那里我收集了圣水，这个我都记得。有一次我去到中国，那些我从前没有会到的人把友好的标志点上我的前额称我为自己人。 不知不觉中外客的服装卸落了，内里那个永远显示一种意外的欢乐联系的人出现了。 我取了一个中国名字，穿上中国衣服。在我心中早就晓得在哪里我找到了朋友，我就在哪里重生，他带来了生命的奇妙。 在异乡开着不知名的花朵，它们的名字是陌生的，异乡的土壤是它们的祖国，但是在灵魂的欢乐的王国里他们的亲属却得到了无碍的欢迎。节日又一次地来到了，带着春天的丰富的祝贺诗人廊畔的花枝插满了一只新的生日的篮子。 在一间紧闭的屋里我躲得远远地——今年，无用的是妙焰花的劝驾。 我想唱出“春山”的调子，但是临近的别梦郁积在我的心头。我的生日，我晓得，不久就要融入不变的一天，在“时间”的无记号的连续中消失。 这悲伤并不充满着花街阴影的温柔，记忆的痛苦不在森林的萧萧瑟瑟中发声。 无情的欢乐将吹起这节日的笛子在路上，挥走离愁。日光炎灼，这个孤寂的中午。我望着这张空椅，在那上面找不到一丝慰安的痕迹。在它的心中塞满了绝望的言词仿佛要在哀恸中说出。空虚的声音充满了慈怜那最深的意义是把握不到的。就像一只狗用忧伤的目光在寻找他的走失的主人，他的心在迷惘的哀愁中哀唤着，不知道出了什么事也不知为什么，只用无益的目光到处找寻着：这张椅子的声音似乎比他的哀苦还要柔弱还要伤痛，它的空洞的沉默的亲人被夺去的痛苦弥漫了这个房间。在茹卜那伦①的河岸上我起来，清醒着：这个世界，我承认，不是一个幻梦。在用血写成的文字里我清楚地看到了我的存在，通过重复的毁伤和痛苦我认识了我自己。真理是严酷的，我喜爱这个严酷，它永不欺骗。今生是永世炼修的受难，为换得真理的可怕的价值，①茹卜那伦是孟加拉的一条河。这名字含有“神人的形象” the meaning of. ——译者在死亡中偿还一切的债负。最初一天的太阳问存在的新知——你是谁，得不到回答。一年又一年过去了，这天的最后的太阳在静默的夜晚在西方的海岸上问着最后的问题——你是谁，他得不到回答。 忧愁的黑夜，一次又一次地来到了我的门前。 它的唯一的武器，我看出，是痛苦的歪曲的假装；恐怖的可憎的姿态在黑暗中开始奏着它欺骗的序曲。什么时候我相信了它的狰狞的面具，无结果的挫败就跟着来了。 这胜负的游戏是生命的幻想；从儿童时代，每走一步，这个暗鬼总是紧跟着，充满着忧愁的嘲弄。 一幅形色惊恐的活动帘幕——死亡的精巧的手艺在零碎的昏暗中织成的。你用不同的诡骗之网把你创造的道路盖起，你这狡猾者。你用灵巧的手在简单的生活上安上伪信的圈套。你用这欺骗在“伟大”上留下一个印记；对于他，夜不是秘密的。 你的星辰向他指示的道路，这是诗人口述的最后一首诗，没有来得及改正。——译者就是他自己永远清醒的心的道路，他的单纯的信仰使它永远照明。外面弯曲内里正直他为此而自豪。 人们说他是无用的人。他用自己的内心赢得了真理用他自己的明光洗净。什么都不能骗走，他带进他的仓库中的最后的报酬。 他这从容地接受你的诡计的人从你的手中得到了达到安宁的永远的权利。 前面是平静的海洋。 放下船去吧，舵手。你们将是永远的伙伴把他抱在你的膝上吧。在“无穷”的道路上这首歌曲是诗人在１９３９年１２月写的。遵从他的意愿，这首歌在１９４１年８月７日在寂乡礼堂诗人的追悼会上唱过。——译者北极星将要放光。 自由的付与者，你的饶恕，你的仁慈在这永远的旅程上将要是无尽的财富。让尘世的牵累消灭吧，让广大的宇宙把他抱在臂间，让他在他无畏的心中认识到这伟大的无名作者吧。译者附记这本是印度大诗人罗宾德罗那特·泰戈尔逝世以后，他的朋友们替他编选的诗集。集中共有１３０首的诗，歌曲，自由诗和散文诗；有些是曾散见于印度的各种报章刊物，有些是没有发表过的，其中除了第１１４和１２０—１３０这１２首之外，都是诗人自己从孟加拉文译成英文的。 这诗集，按着诗创作的年代，分为四部分： ２．５８—８７首（１９１６—１９２７年）３．８８—１１２首（１９２８—１９３９年）４．１１３—１３０首（１９４０—１９４１年）除了序诗是１９３２年写的，和末一首是１９３９年写的，因为这两首诗的内容，适合于放在卷首和卷末，所以就这样地排列了。 这本诗集最突出的一点，是编入了许多泰戈尔的国际主义和爱国主义的诗，这些诗显示了泰戈尔的最伟大最受人民喜爱的一面。孟加拉本是印度民主运动和文艺复兴运动的中心，在广大人民渴求解放热望自由的火海狂潮之中，泰戈尔感激奋发，拿起他的“力透纸背”的神笔，写出了热情澎湃的歌颂祖国鼓舞人民的诗篇。集中的第３８—４４首，就是他１９０５年孟加拉自治运动期间写的；集中的第５１首，在１９４６年印度独立后，被选为国歌。 此外如第１０２首关于非洲的；第１１０首关于慕尼黑会议的；都是诗人对于殖民主义和法西斯主义的最严厉尖锐的谴责。诗人的祖国曾长期地被践踏于英帝国殖民主义者的铁蹄之下，因此他对于被压迫剥削的亚非人民，有着最深厚的同情，对于西方帝国主义集团，有着最切齿的痛恨；在这类的诗篇的字里行间，充满了他的目光如炬，须眉戟张的义怒，真使读者“如闻其声，如见其人”！这是泰戈尔人格中严霜烈日之一面，与“吉檀迦利”集中所表现的霁月光风，是有其不同的情调的。 译文是根据印度加尔各答维斯瓦—巴拉蒂（Ｖｉｓｖａ—Ｂｈａｒａｔｉ）出版的《诗选》（Ｐｏｅｍｓ）译出的。 《泰戈尔诗选》，人民文学出版社１９５８年５月出版。内收冰心译的诗选和石真译的故事诗。）我的秘密假如我今年不能升学，我晓得我做什么最好；这是一个绝对的秘密，我不让任一个人知道！那天我到百货大楼，我本想买几个书签，走上三楼，我发现了结果我呆了整整的半天！满屋的精美的物件，看得我眼睛也发愣——五彩的绒花，透空的剪纸，还有玲珑带穗的纱灯。粉红和碧绿的玉石，雕成了仙女和寿星；乳白色的像牙上面，刻着密密的山，树，和小人。六扇黑漆的屏风上，有古装的人在花下喝酒，吹箫；颗颗的红玉堆成樱桃，片片的翡翠粘作芭蕉。 一幅灿烂的云锦从墙上垂下，几条金龙在彩云里张牙舞爪；天鹅绒，湖水一样地温柔，闪闪的光浪在架上涌流。 我最爱的还是泥人和面人，他们一个个都那么活泼，神气： 勇敢的武松，用力地按住“大虫”，小阿福抱着麒麟，脸上笑嘻嘻地……“老师父，您讲下去吧，您为什么难受得说不出话？”——这一句话使我回顾一大群人正围着那老师父——我想听听他们谈些什么，我悄悄地走到旁边蹲下。老头儿摸着胡子笑着，又长长地叹了一口气：“我的故事已经说完，那是我从前痛苦的经历。新社会把我救了出来；我还能不献上全部的精力？ “苦的是我眼酸，腰痛加上失眠，虽然我还想再干几十年。 苦的是我没有一个识字的徒弟，念书的孩子们说搞手艺没出息！ “你说我们的美术工艺在国际上声誉很高，提到这点我更要发牢骚！ 你说美术工艺是祖国优美的文化，有几个青年人懂得这句话？ “我的师父从前教了我好些，都是多少年积累的聪明智慧；糟糕的是我自己也不会写字，有谁来替我把经验作个总结？ “假如我有一个有文化的徒弟……听到这里我就从地上跳起！ “老师父，您千万不要伤心，我们都愿意做您的徒弟！” 这句话没有从我口中说出，当着许多人我真有点害羞；我只默默地站在一旁，紧握着一双出汗的手。 我们班里还有许多人……王明的木工就十分灵巧，我的泥工，人家都说“不赖”，陈善的纸工是再好也没有！还有李小枫和董以文，她们都喜欢挑花，刺绣。 假如我们都来加入这支美术工艺的大军，老师父们还要发什么愁？ 我们立志向你们好好学习，同时自己再研究，追求。 我们学会了传统的精巧的手艺，再加上我们眼前然悉的东西： 在像牙上，我们会刻出亭台楼屋，和屋里桌上摆的杯子和茶壶；我们也要刻出挂着八盏大灯的八面红旗在玉石栏杆边临风飞舞。一团泥土，我们学着把它捏成老头子手里捻着数珠；我们也会捏出狼狈的王葆，揣着他那个可恨的宝葫芦！ 我要写信给在云南考察的哥哥，让他给我寄来几张鸟兽的画图；我要用丝绒把它们做得逼真，让人人知道我们有多少异兽珍禽。通草花的标本也少不了，祖国的花朵像锦绣一般；可是原料大宗是台湾出产，为此，我们更要快快解放台湾！ 我紧紧地握着出汗的双手，快乐，泉水似地涌上心头！无论是纸张，泥土，到了我熟练的手里，我就有无限的创造的自由！我眼前涌出朵朵的红云，橱里的绒鸡也翩翩起舞，架上的泥人对我拍手欢迎，欢迎我加入他们的队伍。 我一定要去学美术手艺！ 我想我爹妈不会不同意——可是我觉得现在还是不说的好，别让人以为考试会把我难倒！ 我兴奋地怀抱着这个秘密，回家去先准备好好地考！ Collection of poems. )