This is not a book
the sentences in it are
My arteries and veins-
Cut off my hand if you
want, cut off my leg;
But don’t touch my
tongue-
it is the instrument of
my word –
performing marriage
between vowels and consonants,
and anointing honey to
ideas, he who brought
meandering stream of
life to the world of letters,
in his sweetness world
bathes and becomes virtuous-
in words there are wine
yards-
authoritarians arrogance
cannot humiliate him-
Man can ascend mountain,
peak but not the peak of life-
He can touch the stars
of the sky but cannot touch the heart-
He can cross the oceans
but not a tear-
If man were to be
floating in life like
The rag of white cloud
in the sky
Why there will be lust
and lewdness, rancour and wrath?
Why would wars vanquish
this world?
Stop! Stop! Some memory
is coming walking on dry leaves;
What message it has
brought from
forests of this raging
summer
