The language of eternal question.

What language is thy answer, O sky?

The language of eternal silence.

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WE, the rustling leaves, have a voice that answers the storms, but who are you so silent?

I am a mere flower.

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I sit at my window this morning, where the world like a passer-by stops for a moment,

 nods to me,

and passes on.

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MY day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach,

listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

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You are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf,

I am the smaller one on its upper side,

said the dewdrop to the lake.

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The birth and death of the leaves are the rapid whirls of the eddy,

 whose wider circles,

 are the distant stars.

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THE night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear,

I am death, your mother.

I am to give you fresh birth.

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I cannot keep your waves, says the bank to the river.

Let me at least keep your footprints in my heart

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Let it be the last musing,

 that thy love is all that there is.