I Am Showing the Picture of a Poem
From the infinite ocean flowing in nature,
With the spoon of my senses, I scoop it out—
It has no color, no scent,
No religion, no language,
Made manifest by senses and emotions from the unexpressed,
Soaked in science, philosophy, psychology, and sociology,
Adorned by art and literature—
That poem which has birthed countless poets,
And will keep giving birth to more,
Yet no poet ever gave it birth.
I am showing the picture of a poem,
It becomes what the poet’s consciousness shapes it to be,
It flows as the current of emotions drives it—
It holds no single essence,
Yet from it flow all nine rasas.
It has no form—solid, liquid, or vapor—
Yet it can mold the subtle being
Into the shape of a human or even enlightenment,
A picture adorned on the stage
By the seven notes and rhythms.
I am showing the picture of a poem,
Which cannot be bound by the glue of caste,
Nor veiled by the garb of religion,
Which cannot be tied by the ropes of borders and lines,
Which the fire of ego and attachment cannot scorch,
Which time cannot confine,
Which cannot be erased by the will to destroy.
O poem, flowing endlessly in nature,
I seek to give you my colors,
With the spoonful my consciousness can hold,
I try to serve you from your infinite sea.
I and my vision will one day vanish,
But you will remain, for you are the seer—
Though unexpressed yourself, you can become manifest,
With no birth, no death,
For you are a poem,
Ever-flowing in nature,
You are a poem.
