WHEN THE GONG sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our lane, Every day I meet the hawker crying, 'Bangles, crystal bangles!' There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home. I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, 'Bangles, crystal bangles!' When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school, I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging the ground. He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or gets wet. I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with nobody to stop me from digging. Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to bed, I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and down. The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like a giant with one red eye in its head. The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at his side, and never once goes to bed in his life. I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night, chasing the shadows with my lantern.
YOU ALLOWED your kingly power to vanish, Shajahan, but your wish was to make imperishable a tear-drop of love. Time has no pity for the human heart, he laughs at its sad struggle to remember. You allured him with beauty, made him captive, and crowned the formless death with fadeless form. The secret whispered in the hush of night to the ear of your love is wrought in the perpetual silence of stone. Though empires crumble to dust, and centuries are lost in shadows the marble still sighs to the stars, 'I remember.' 'I remember.'-But life forgets, for she has her call to the Endless and she goes on her voyage unburdened, leaving her memories to the forlorn forms of beauty.