The anguish of the Bhakta  

 

 

 

 

 

Night is here.

The wind and the rain announce the news that spring is coming.
Still I sleep alone, my dream not yet realized.

Flower petals falling
seem to understand my dreams and aspirations.
They touch the ground of spring
in perfect silence.

Spring comes slowly and quietly
to allow winter to withdraw
slowly and quietly.

The color of the mountain this afternoon
is tinged with nostalgia.
The terrible war flower
has left her footprints--
countless petals of separation and death
in white and violet.

Very tenderly, the wound opens itself in the depths of my heart.
Its color is the color of blood,
its nature the nature of separation.

The beauty of spring blocks my way.
How could I find another path up the mountain?

I suffer so. My soul is frozen.
My heart vibrates like the fragile string of a lute
left out in a stormy night.

Yes, it is there. Spring has really come.
But the mourning is heard
clearly, unmistakably,
in the wonderful sounds of the birds.

The morning mist is already born.
The breeze of spring in its song
expresses both my love and my despair.
The cosmos is so indifferent.

Why?

To the harbor, I came alone,
and now I leave alone.

There are so many paths leading to the homeland.
They all talk to me in silence.

I invoke the Absolute.

Spring has come
to every corner of the ten directions.

Its song, alas, is only the song
of departure.

 

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