On every road there is a man who sets out,
On every man there is a sky,
On every sky there are clouds,
Each cloud is a sign of destiny.
Silently choosing a direction,
A star or a pair of eyes,
How a man chooses the world,
How the world chooses a man.
Silently he chooses the beginning,
Proudly he chooses the way back,
Night chooses the man of the dawn,
Dawn chooses the wind for him.
Choice of a flying bird or a falling leaf,
Choice of a rock or a puff of smoke,
Who chooses in the midst of no choice,
He is the chosen one.
Every man has a nameless heart,
Every heart has lonely hours,
Who chooses the lonely world,
The world chooses his voice.
The shooting star sinks in choice.
The sun rises in choice
Sonnets by Shakespeare
1 We would that the fairest should flourish, That the delicate rose should never fade, That the ripe should always die, And that the tender offspring should keep him in their hearts; But thou, who art only a companion to thine own bright eyes, Who burns thyself, and nurtures that eye's flame, And turns the harvest into a famine, Art thou an enemy to Thou art an enemy to thyself, and art not too cruel to thy sweet self. Thou art the freshest ornament in the world today, Thou art the only messenger in the glorious spring, Thou hast buried thy children in thy own buds, Thou lover of money, The meaner thou art, the worse it gets. Have mercy on the world, or thou art an insatiable man, Thou eatest the world's due share, And only thou and the grave remain. II When forty winters besiege thy vermilion face, And dig deep trenches in the garden of thy beauty, Thy youthful finery, so envied, shall be rags and flotsam, And no one shall look on it: and then, if men ask where thy beauty lies, And where are the treasures of thy youthful years, Thou say'st, "In these deep-set sockets of mine Are the shames of covetousness, and the praises of unprofitableness. " The uses of thy beauty would be more praiseworthy, if thou couldst say, "My little child of peace shall sum up my account, and forgive my old age," confirming his beauty in the inheritance of thy lineage! This will revitalize you in the twilight of old age, and revive your dying blood. Three Look in the mirror, and tell thy face in it, That now it should be made another; And if thou dost not soon make a temple of it, Deceive the world, and strip it of its mother's bliss. For where is there a woman so chaste that her virgin birth will not be plowed by thee? Where is the man so foolish that he would make his own grave, and cut off his own blood? Thou art thy mother's mirror, and in thee she calls back the fragrant April of her prime: and likewise from thy twilight window thou shalt see, wrinkled as thou art, thy golden years. But if thou live not to be remembered, die alone, and thy likeness with thee. Why, handsome prodigal son, didst thou exhaust thy heritage of beauty in thyself? Nature's gift is not a gift, she leases; she leases generously to the generous. Why, then, fair scornful man, abuse the generous gift that was given to thee to pass on to others? Why does he who loses his money waste so much of it, and yet cannot live? For if thou dost but with thyself, thou dost cheat thy flattering self. What account will thou give, when creation calls thee back to her bosom? Thy unused beauty shall go with thee to the grave; and with it, live to execute thy will.
Tagore's Birds of Prey
The drifting birds of summer, which came to sing at my window, suddenly flew away again.
Ah, the yellow leaves of autumn, but did not sing, but only sighed and drifted down there.
Ah! O little wanderers of the world, leave your footprints in my words.
In the presence of the beloved, the world has removed its solemn mask,
It has become as small as a song, a soft kiss.
It is the earth's sad teardrops that often keep her smile in full bloom.
The vastness of the desert, often for the shake of the head and smile and fly away a leaf of grass and flickering love
fire.
If you long for the sun and weep, then you long for the stars.
O dancing water, the grains of sand are following you, begging for your voice and flow.
Will you bear the burden of their limping?
Her longing face, like the night rain, dreamily haunts my heart.
Once we dreamed we were strangers.
When we woke up, we realized that we were dear to each other.
My sorrows are as calm as the 'dusk' in the silent forest.
The breeze, like unseen fingers, played music to my soul.
'What are you talking about, O sea?'
'It is the eternal question.'
'What are you going to answer me, O God?
Listen, my heart, to the whispers and cares of the world.
How great is the mystery of creation as the darkness of the night
The phantom of the intellect is but the mist of the morning.
Don't place your love on a cliff, for it is too high to reach.
This morning I sat at the window, and the world, like a passing guest, stood for a moment, nodded to me and
went away.
These little thoughts are those rustling sounds of leaves that stamp my mind with whispers of joy
.
You cannot see yours; all you see is your own shadow.
How foolish is my desire, O my Lord, that their noise should cover Thy voice.
I will be still and listen to Thy holy voice.
I cannot choose the best.
It is the best that picks me.
Those who carry their lanterns behind their backs, but cast their shadows, in front of them.
My existence is as life, an eternal wonder.
'The sound of rustling leaves is answering the wind and rain: who are you, such silence?'
'I am but a flower.'
Rest belongs to work as the eye socket belongs to the eye.
Man is a new-born baby, and his strength is the strength to grow.
God expects an answer for the flowers that have been given to us, not for the sun or the earth
The earth.
The playful light is like a child, joyful among the green leaves, who does not know that men are hypocrites or liars.
Ah! Beauty, cultivate your inner beauty out of love, and do not revel in your
outward beauty before the mirror.
My heart rises up in a thousand waves of love, and rushes to the shores of the world; I shall inscribe her
signature in the language of tears: 'I love you.'
'What are you waiting for, O moon?
'I am honoring the sun that must give way.'
The green trees stretch to my window as if they were the longing voice of the silent earth.
Every morning that God creates for itself seems new to itself.
Life finds its wealth in the needs of the world;
it finds its value in the needs of love.
A dry riverbed feels no need to give thanks for its past.
A bird wishes it were a cloud.
The cloud wishes it were a bird.
The waterfall sang, 'When I get it, I'll have a voice.'
I can't tell you why this heart is so silently frustrated,
Is it apologizing for those little needs he never asks for, never understands, never remembers?
O woman, as you tend your house, your hands and feet sing, like a flowing spring in the mountains, gliding
over pebbles.
The sun, when it crosses the western sea, gives its last salutation to the east.
Don't condemn your food for lack of appetite.
The tree shows the earth's thirst for the sky by stretching out and looking.
You smile without saying anything to me, which is what I have been waiting for.
Fish dive in the water, beasts clamor in the earth, and birds sing in the sky; but thou, O man,
hast everything.
The world sweeps over the poignant heart-strings, and plays a melancholy lament.
He made his weapon his God;
While his weapon prevailed, he himself failed.
God sends itself out of creation.
The shadows wear a veil, and quietly, meekly, creeping, follow 'the light'.
The stars are not afraid to appear because they are as small as fireflies.
Thank God I am not the wheel of power, I am only one of the living who are run over by it.
People are sharp, not broad, and often cling to one point, unable to move away.
The fact that your idols are crushed in the dust proves that the dust of God is greater than your idols.
It is not history that creates man, but man creates history.
The glass lamp rebuked the tile lamp for calling it a cousin, but when the white moon rose, the glass lamp smiled
gently and called it, 'My dear-dear sister.'
We met and kissed each other like gulls meeting waves.
We parted as the gulls fly away and the waves roll away.
When the day's work is done, I am like a canoe lying on the shore, quietly listening to the music of the evening tide dancing
.
Life is granted to us, and we must give life in order to receive it.
When we are extremely humble, we are close to greatness.
The sparrow worries for the sparrow for dragging its heavy tail.
The Eternal Voice sings, 'Fear not the moment.'
The hurricane finds its way in the middle of nowhere, and stops its pursuit in the land of the birds.
Friends, finish my drink in my cup;
Don't wait to pour it into another cup, and let the hot effervescence fade away.
God says to man, 'I heal thee, therefore I will injure thee; I love thee, therefore I will punish
thee.'
Thanks for the light of the flame, but don't forget the lamp lift that is silent and strong and stands in the dark.
O grass, your footsteps are small, but you own the ground you tread on.
The delicate flower opens her buds and cries, 'Dear world, do not wither me.'
God may be disgusted with kings, but never with tiny flowers.
Evil cannot stand the test, but truth can.
The waterfall says: 'Though a little water is enough for the thirsty, I give my whole
water with joy.'
Where is the fountain of the flowers that burst forth in unending revelry?
The woodcutter's axe begged the tree for its handle, and
the tree gave it.
In my silent mind I feel the widow's twilight, veiled in rain and mist, sighing.
Chastity is a treasure, that is the product of perfect love.
The mist, like love, plays upon the heart of the mountain, and presents all its wonderful visions.
We judge the world wrongly, and say instead that the world has deceived us.
The winds of the poet, sweeping over the sea and the forest, seek the sound of his ego.
Each baby is born with the message that God has not disappointed mankind.
The grass seeks the crowding of the land.
The trees seek the silence of the sky.
Man often clogs his own way.
Your voice, my friend, like the murmur of the sea, like the whisper of the forest, lingers in my mind
Lowly returning.
The sparks in the darkness are the stars in the sky, but what is that which lights the sparks?
Make beautiful as summer flowers in life and red as autumn leaves in death.
The man who wants to do good is knocking at the door; the man who is kind sees the door open.
After death the many become one, and in life the one becomes many.
When God died, religion became one.
The artist is the lover of nature, so he is its slave and its master.
'O fruit, how far are you from me?'
'O flower, I am hidden in your heart.'
Longing is to feel in the darkness those things you cannot see in the daytime.
The dew said to the lake and the marsh: 'You are the big droplet under the lotus leaf, and I am the little droplet above the lotus leaf.
The sword needs a scabbard to protect it, but the scabbard is content with its own dullness.
In the darkness the One is as one, but in the light the One is diverse.
The earth is made habitable with the help of grass.
The life and the death of the green leaf are the sharp turning of the whirlwind, whose vast circle is slowed
among the stars.
Power says to the world, 'You are mine.'
And the world imprisoned it on its throne.
Compassion said to the world, 'I am yours.'
The world made then gave it infinite.
The mist seemed to be the desire of the earth.
It covered the earth and cried out to the sun.
Silence, my heart! Do not disturb the trees that are praying.
The music of eternity is mocked by the clamor of a moment.
I think of those many other ages that float on the stream of life, and of
'love and death' that have been washed away by time; and I feel the relief that follows.
The melancholy of my soul is a bridal veil,
To be removed by night.
The mark of death gives value to the currency of life, that it may reach the true treasure.
The cloud stood humbly in the corner of the sky,
and the morning sun crowned it with its splendor.
The clay is insulted, but returns flowers.
Just move on, don't linger to pick the flowers; for they will open all the way ahead of you.
Roots are branches underground.
The branch is the root in heaven.
The music of that distant summer soars around autumn, seeking its old nest.
Don't pull out the Hoon to lend it to your friend, it's every insult to him.
The swaying days, like fresh moss around an old tree, cling to my heart.
The echo mocks its original sound, to prove it was the original sound.
God is often ashamed of the lucky one boasting of special grace for it.
I cast my own shadow in front of me, for I have a lamp yet to be lit.
The individual joins the bustling congregation, in order to drown out his own cry of silence.
The end of weariness is death, but the end of perfection is infinity.
The sun wears the simple garb of light,
the clouds are adorned with the splendor of infinity.
The peaks of the mountains look like the clamoring arms of children, trying to pick up the stars in the sky.
The road is crowded with pedestrians, but it is lonely; because no one loves it.
Power boasts of its sins, and is laughed at by the falling leaves and the passing clouds.
Today the earth is like a spinning woman, who whispers to me
some of the old in that forgotten language.
But the blades of grass are not ashamed to grow in this great world.
Dreams are a nagging wife.
Sleeping eyes are a silent affected husband.
The night kissed the passing day and whispered in its ear, 'I am death, your mother, and Mao is
giving you a new birth.'
O Night, I feel thy laugh, as the beloved woman blows out her lamp.
I bring the world of decadence into my world of splendor and prosperity.
O dear friend, on many a twilight-deepened shore, as I listen to the sound of the waves, I feel
the silence of your great thoughts.
The bird thinks it is an act of kindness to lift the fish into the air.
The night said to the sun, 'The love-letter you sent me in the bright moon, I answered with tears on the green grass
.'
Greatness was born a little child, and at his death he left his childhood to the world.
The perfect pebble is not struck with an iron mallet, but the water dances and sings.
The bee sips the nectar of a flower, and when it is gone, it buzzes with thanks.
The magnificent butterfly, however, is convinced that the flower should give her a rosy thank you.
It is easy to speak eloquently, but difficult to speak the absolute truth.
The Possible asked the Impossible:
"Where is your dwelling place?"
"In the dreams of the impotent." The Impossible replied.
If you are closed to all strange arguments, then the truth too will be shut out.
I hear something ringing in the back of my sorrowful mind - but I cannot see them.
Leisure in the midst of activity is work;
The still sea becomes a wave-chip when it moves.
The green leaf becomes a flower when it is in love,
and the flower bears fruit when it is in worship.
The root of the tree under the ground does not need reward for making its branches full of fruit.
On this windy, rainy night, I look at the swaying branches and think of the greatness of all things.
The midnight storm, like a giant child, wakes up in the unseasonable depths of the night and begins to play to be
noisy.
Thou canst not chase thy lover even when thou liftest thy waves, O sea! Thou lonely new
woman of the storm.
'I am ashamed of my emptiness.' The text said to the work.
'And yet I seem so poor in thy presence.' The work replied.
Time is the wealth of change, but the clock is only change, but no wealth.
Truth felt narrow and constrained in his clothes, but in imagination he moved with ease.
O road, how I hated thee, when I was traveling here and there; but now
that thou hast guided me everywhere, I have become one with thee through love.
Let me see, among the stars, one that is guiding my life through the dark unknown
O woman! Thou art graceful, and thine fingers caress my vessels like rhythmic music.
A sad voice nestled in the ruins of years,
And in the night, that voice sang to me, "I loved you."
The fire warned me away with its tongues of flame.
Save me from the ashes of the ashes I am buried in.
I have a sky full of stars,
but, oh, think of the unlit lamps in my chamber.
The ashes of dead writing stain thee,
Let silence cleanse thy soul.
O crevices of life, those crevices through which the woes of death are sent.
The world has opened its heart in the morning,
Come forth, O my heart, and meet it with thy love.
My mind shines in the green leaves; my heart sings in the sun's touch; my life
for it has to float with all things, and go into the blue space, and wander and rejoice in the darkness of time
.
God's great power is in the breeze, not in the storm.
It is a dream, and all things are scattered about me, and when I awake, I shall see them all gathered about thee, and so I am.
'Who will take my baton.' Sunset inquired.
'I will do my best, my Lord.' Vaillant said.
You pick the petals of the flower, but not the beauty of the flower.
Silence will load your voice as a nest supports a sleeping bird.
Greatness is not afraid to walk with the small,
only the not-so-small are far from others.
The night blooms in secret, but lets the day receive thanksgiving.
Power condemns the struggles of the sacrificed as ingratitude.
When we rejoice in contentment, we can happily part with our fruits.
The raindrops kissed the earth and whispered, 'Mother, we are your homesick children,
now returned from heaven to your embrace.'
The spider's web catches flies, but pretends to catch dewdrops.
Love! When thou comest, for the lamp of sorrow is burning in thy hand, I shall see thy face, and
know that thou art happiness.
The firefly said to the star, "The scholars say that your light will be extinguished one day."
The star kept quiet.
In the dusk twilight, the birds of dawn flew to my peaceful nest.
Thoughts penetrate the mind like geese skimming the sky.
I hear the sound of their wings.
The canal always likes to think that the river exists only to supply its water.
The world kisses my soul with pain, but demands poetry in return.
And in mine, is it my soul that breaks out? Or is it the
world soul that knocks at my heart to come in?
The mind grows with its own words, nurturing itself.
I dipped the vessel of my mind into the silence of this time, and it was filled with love.
Whether you have a job or not,
when you say, 'Let me do something here.' Then you're being mischievous.
The sunflower is ashamed that a nameless flower is its equal.
When the sun rose, it smiled at the nameless flower and said, 'How are you, my love?
'Who is it that drives me like destiny?
'It is I who straddle my own back.'
The clouds fill the cup of the river, but they hide themselves in the mountains.
On my way, I spilled the water from my canteen.
Only a little was left for the household.
The water in the tank is transparent, the water in the sea is dark.
Tiny truths have words to argue with, but great truths have only great silence.
Your smile is like a wild flower, and your speech is like the sound of a pine; but your heart is known to all
women.
That which is small is reserved for one whom I love, and that which is great is reserved for all.
Woman, thou hast wrapped the heart of the world in oracular tears, as the waters of the sea surround the earth.
The sunshine welcomes me with a smile,
Rain, you speak to me like a sorrowful sister.
My flower has lost its forgotten petals in the daytime.
By night the flower grows into the golden fruit of remembrance.
I am like the path of the night, listening in the silence to the sound of memory.
The twilight sky seems to me like a window in which a light is shining, and in which a man
is waiting.
The man who is too busy to do well has no time to do well.
Though I am an empty, rainless autumn cloud, I see my fullness in the golden rice fields.
People are praising hatred, killing!
But God is ashamed to hide these memories under the green grass.
The toes do not favor the fingers of the past.
Darkness tends to light, but blindness tends to death.
A favored puppy will suspect the universe is conspiring to usurp its place.
Sit quietly, O my heart, and raise not the dust;
Let the world find its way to thee.
The bow whispers to the arrow before it is strung, 'Thine is my grant.'
Woman oh woman, in your laughter is the music of the fountain of life.
A heart filled with logic is like a knife with blades on all sides.
It will cause blood to flow from the hand that wields the knife.
God loves man's Solomon more than his own great star.
The only thing that tames this crazy, wild world is beautiful music.
The twilight said to the sun, 'My heart is a golden chest that you kiss.'
Too much proximity may kill, distance or success.
The chirping of crickets, the pattering of the night rain, reach my ears through the darkness, as the rustle of dreams
from my lost youth.
The flower cries out to the morning sky, which has lost its stars, 'I have lost my dewdrops.'
The burning wood spewed sparks as it cried, 'This is my flower and my death
.'
The wasp thought that the bee's honey-storage nest was too small,
but the bee asked it to build a smaller nest.
'I cannot keep your waves.'
The bank said to the river: 'I can only keep your footprints in
my heart.'
The day and the small clamor of the earth drowned out the serenity of the whole world.
The infinity of day is hidden in the air, and the infinity of day is hidden in the earth, but the infinity of poetry is both earth and sky
. For the meaning of poetry can walk, and the music of poetry can fly.
When the sun goes down, the east of the morning stands silently before him.
Let me not keep my error in my own world and make it come against me.
Praise shames me as I secretly beg for it.
Let me dwell in the depths of tranquility when there is nothing to do, as the twilight of the calm shore.
Maiden, thy purity, like the clear blue of the lake, shows thy simplicity and beauty.
The supreme goodness is not unique.
It comes with everything.
God's right hand is generous and merciful, while his left hand is solemn and terrible.
My twilight comes to the foreign woods and speaks a word that my morning stars cannot understand.
The darkness of the night is a bag from which the golden light of dawn bursts.
We would but lend the colors of the rainbow to a life that has as much smoke as it does.
God expects to take back his flower, but man holds it in his hand and offers it as a gift.
My melancholy thoughts plagued me to find out their names.
The fruit gives its preciousness, the flower its fragrance; but let me be a leaf, and humbly
give my shade.
My heart sails on the idle wind, and will sail to the nameless isle of phantoms.
It is fierce, but the people are kind.
Make me a cup of your wine, and let me dedicate the whole cup to you and to your people.
The storm seemed to cry, as if the god Taro was in pain
for having been rejected by the earth for its love.
The world has no leakage, for death is not a rupture.
Life is richer for the loss of love.
Your great heart, my friend, shines like the snow-capped peaks of a lonely mountain at dawn, by the light of the rising sun in the east.
The fountains of death make the waters of life gush forth.
The activity of God rests in its own melody.
Trampling and kicking only raises dust, and does not reap from the soil.
Our names have the quality of a flash on the waves of the night, and die without a trace.
He who looks at a rose by the eye sees only her thorns.
Tie gold to the wings of a bird, and the bird cannot fly in the sky.
The same lotus flower as in our place, opening in this foreign water, has the same fragrance, only
it has been given another name.
In the mind's perspective, the distance is eerily vast.
The moon shines her clear light across the sky, but keeps the spots to herself.
Don't say, 'It's still morning,' but dismiss it in the name of yesterday, as if it were a nameless newborn baby seen for the first time.
Lightly, the moon shines her clear light across the sky, but keeps the spots to herself.
Smoke to the sky, ashes to the earth, both boast that they are brothers of fire.
Rain whispers to the vegetal flower, 'Keep me in your heart forever'.
Su Xin Hua sighed 'Ouch' and fell to the ground.
Don't be afraid of me, O timid mind,
I am only a poet.
The hazy silence of my heart seems to be filled with the chirping of crickets - the gray sound of the sunlight
.
O Rocket, your insult to the morning star will return to the earth with yourself.
Thou hast guided me through the bustle of the day to the loneliness of the dusk,
and I have waited from the silent night for the meaning of this.
Life is like crossing a great sea, and we meet in this same narrow boat.
When we die we go to the same shore, and then we go to different worlds.
The stream of truth flows through the river of error.