THEY CALL YOU mad. Wait for tomorrow and keep silent. They throw dust upon your head. Wait for tomorrow. They will bring their wreath. They sit apart in their high seat. Wait for tomorrow. They will come down and bend their head.
I.122. kaun murali sabd sun anand bhayo WHAT IS THAT flute whose music thrills me with joy? The flame burns without a lamp; The lotus blossoms without a root; Flowers bloom in clusters; The moon-bird is devoted to the moon; With all its heart the rain-bird longs for the shower of rain; But upon whose love does the Lover concentrate His entire life?
ON THAT NIGHT when the storm broke open my door. I did not know that you entered my room through the ruins, For the lamp was blown out, and it became dark; I stretched my arms to the sky in search of help. I lay on the dust waiting in the tumultuous dark and I knew not that storm was your own banner. When the morning came I saw you standing upon the emptiness that was spread over my house.
