Take it Easy

We repeat the same
quarrel every time,
every single time
a skirmish, a crime!

Have you noticed
a couple quarreling?
The content is the
same, an insult or
a shame game.

We're not that creative
with the intent, or the name.

A dispute with relatives,
colleagues, neighbours,
countries, friends, or
be it an internal conflict
the type doesn't change
nor the challenge.

It's the same thing
over and over again
in time and space.

We must be crazy
not to take it easy!

The Bird and The Burden

                    The Bird and the Burden

Time is a bird
its wings flow with
the winds
memories are
grounded they go against
them, don't leave,
they stay young,
aged for ages
eyes closed they let
time pass;
one doesn't live
the other doesn't die

 

L'oiseau et le Fardeau

Le temps est un oiseau
ses ailes glissent avec
les vents
les souvenirs, eux,
sont cloués au sol : ils vont
à rebours, ne s’en vont pas,
restent jeunes,
vieillis depuis des âges
les yeux clos, ils laissent
le temps passer ;
l’un ne demeure pas,
l’autre ne meurt jamais

Everyone’s everything

Everybody’s got a sin,
Knows just where to bin,
Still keeps it tucked within,
Oh, everybody’s sin…

Everybody hides a grief,
Holds on to the belief
That if they lock it deep,
It won’t disturb the peace…

But silence has a sound,
It echoes all around,
And what we try to lose
Still finds its way back out…

’Cause everybody’s heart
Has a broken little part,
And everybody walks
With a shadow in the dark.
We cover what we feel,
Pretend it isn’t real—
But everyone, everyone’s
Got a sin they try to heal
It’s everyone’s everything.

Everybody wears a smile,
Carries it awhile,
Though inside every mile
Is a hidden fragile file.

Everybody takes a fall,
Sometimes hits a wall,
But acts like standing tall
Is the only rule for all.

But the truth begins to rise
In the corners of our eyes,
No matter how we hide—
It trembles, then it cries…

’Cause everybody’s heart
Has a broken little part,
And everybody walks
With a shadow in the dark.
We cover what we feel,
Pretend it isn’t real—
But everyone, everyone’s
Got a sin they try to heal
It’s everyone’s everything.

So let your heart unfold,
Let your secrets be told,
You’re human — made of gold
Even with the cracks you hold…

We’re heavier inside
When we try to run and hide,
But lighter when we say
“I’m hurting, but I’ll stay…”

’Cause everybody’s heart
Has a broken little part,
And everybody walks
With a shadow in the dark.
We cover what we feel,
Pretend it isn’t real—
But everyone, everyone’s
Got a sin they try to heal
It’s everyone’s everything.

Everyone, everyone’s
Got a grief they try to seal…
Everybody’s sin
It’s everyone’s everything.

Compulsion

 

I have no reason to
come to you, none.

Still, like waves rush
to the shore, for plane fun
I find myself moving towards you—
a magic pull older than logic,
a tide with its own stubborn will.

I run unto you as if
a deadline were pursuing me,
as if time itself leaned forward
and whispered your name.

You consume me
with an insane craze,
a gravity I cannot negotiate,
a fever I cannot undo.

With you I don't want to rhyme—
yet you remain my virtue,
you remain my crime.

You are the quiet death
inside me,
and still, you are my life.

Assimilation

 

With a mirror
I have two faces
I take the mirror away
the face, uneffaced
if I turn to me

in a group of ten
I count nine
unless I look back
at the missing me
the tenth one, I
cannot see

the waves are born
from water, they die
on the shore
yet
the water remains
as the tenth face

if I cannot see the truth
in the table despite the
wood being present
through and through
it’s the knowledge of
wood I cannot behold

I cannot see the sun
covered by the clouds
what I discount is the
light of the sun that
shows me what I see

even when the mind stops
the one that spots
the sound sleep is the same
face that remains uncounted,
the same light that enables
the same wood that pervades.

 

Note: Influenced by the Vedanta philosophy. It's amazing how the easiest truth can be so elusive.

Dehypnotize

 

Hypnotized world,
a mirror within a mirror.
I clean the surface—
but the face beneath
stays opaque.

Hope is a paradox—
the purity of hopelessness.

Essence deserts perception
until awareness
undoes the spell
and we
dehypnotize.

Ambition

There is ambition
in the hearts of humans,
a burning yearning to possess
this and that, a house, a car,
a job, a family
but the world is yet to see
any moral ambition, such
thoughts don’t even cross
the mind, not even in passing
to be a good human being.

The Lines

I pray to God so she gives me
those magic lines that can
stop all wars for good
lines that could eradicate
plastic poverty with the endless
flow of pure water, fresh food.

Then I think of the ego
of writing my lines? Why!
I cannot connect with her
if I beg for those praises,
I can connect with her
only when I am selfless.

Let me pray for a poet instead
from the coming generation
whose lines can break the barriers,
bridge all borders of the earth,
let their astute art make the brain
benevolent, heal the warring heart.

 

The Flute

The Flute

At twilight,
your tune returns
slipping through the dusk
like breath on glass.

I taste the juice
from your fruit,
sweet,
but never whole.

Still,
another day falls
without your shape beside me.

My eyes 
a river,
the Yamuna* flowing
as I remember
that you are,
but not mine.

I seek,
and still,
you vanish.

The melody reaches me 
but I crave the hands that play it.
I sip what remains,
but hunger for
what never arrives.

I hear the tune.
I want the flute.
I enjoy the juice —
but long for
the fruit.

Yamuna - The Yamuna River is deeply connected to Lord Krishna through numerous religious stories, primarily in the Vaishnavism tradition. According to scripture, the Yamuna river parted to allow baby Krishna to be carried across, and Krishna spent his youth playing and dancing on its banks in the region of Vrindavan. The river is revered as a divine goddess named Kalindi, who is considered the consort of Krishna and symbolizes their sacred bond. 

 

La Flûte

Au crépuscule,
ton air revient,
glissant dans le soir
comme un souffle sur le verre.

Je goûte le jus
de ton fruit,
sucré,
mais jamais entier.

Pourtant,
un autre jour s’éteint
sans ta forme à mes côtés.

Les yeux 
un fleuve,
la Yamuna* qui coule
tandis que je me souviens
que tu es,
mais non à moi.

Je cherche,
et toujours,
tu t’évanouis.

La mélodie m’atteint 
mais je désire les mains qui la jouent.
Je savoure ce qu’il reste,
mais j’ai faim de
ce qui ne vient jamais.

J’entends l’air.
Je veux la flûte.
Je goûte le jus —
mais je languis
du fruit.

Yamuna - La rivière Yamuna est profondément liée au Seigneur Krishna à travers de nombreuses histoires religieuses, principalement dans la tradition du Vaishnavisme. Selon les Écritures, la rivière Yamuna s'est séparée pour permettre au bébé Krishna d'être porté de l'autre côté, et Krishna a passé sa jeunesse à jouer et à danser sur ses rives dans la région de Vrindavan. La rivière est vénérée comme une déesse divine nommée Kalindi, qui est considérée comme l'épouse de Krishna et symbolise leur lien sacré.

Untried?

Unkindness is a gift
no one wants to receive,
yet many are eager to give.
Being unkind teaches nothing;
through unkindness, we harm,
we challenge a person.
Through kindness, you charm—
you change a person.

No society, no organization
has ever truly tried kindness.
Even places of worship,
kindness remains only in theory,
for they were never kind
to one another.

Yet, in the spiritual world,
examples abound—
Krishna and Sudama*,
Bhakta Prahlad*,
Satyakam Jabala*,
Yudhishthira*, who refused
to enter heaven without
his faithful companion,
a stray dog.

You have the parable
of the Good Samaritan*,
the merciful Joseph
forgiving his brothers*,
Tabitha’s charity*,
and Jesus with the woman
caught in adultery*.

…I know, I know—
the readers grow weary
of such theoretical talk.
What stirs in their minds
is that wide, untried distance
between theory and practice.
Yet if ever they dared
to harness it,
the world would become
a space of solace.

 

Sudama, a poor Brahmin, traveled to see his childhood friend, Lord Krishna, who was now the wealthy king of Dwarka. With nothing to offer but a handful of puffed rice given to him by his wife, Sudama was hesitant to seek help. However, Krishna greeted him with immense love, honoring their old friendship over their new differences in status. Krishna took the meager offering and relished it.

Young Prahlad was a devout worshipper of Lord Vishnu, but his father, the demon king Hiranyakashipu, hated Vishnu and demanded worship for himself. Despite repeated torture and threats, Prahlad never lost his faith or his kind nature, insisting that Vishnu resided everywhere, including in his father. When Hiranyakashipu threatened to kill his son, Prahlad responded with unwavering calm.

A young boy named Satyakam Jabala was eager to become a student of a respected sage. However, at the time, only those of the priestly Brahmin class could become spiritual students, and they had to state their father's lineage (gotra). When asked for his gotra, Satyakam truthfully told the sage that his mother, Jabala, did not know his lineage as she had been a servant who "wandered a lot" in her youth.

Yudhishthira's devotion to the dog was the final test of his righteous character. The dog was revealed to be Dharma, the personification of righteousness, who had come to test him. This act of unconditional kindness proved Yudhishthira's purity of heart and earned him entry into heaven. It serves as a reminder that compassion should be shown to all living beings, not just those who can offer a reward. 

The Parable of the Good Samaritan This story, told by Jesus, features a Samaritan—a person typically despised by the Jewish people—who stops to help a Jewish man who was robbed, beaten, and left for dead. The Samaritan's radical kindness and selfless compassion stand in stark contrast to the religious leaders who passed by, illustrating that mercy and love should be shown to all, regardless of background.

Joseph forgiving his brothers After Joseph's brothers sold him into slavery, he rose to become a powerful ruler in Egypt. When his brothers later came to Egypt seeking food during a famine, Joseph had the power to punish them. Instead, he forgave them, revealing himself and saving his entire family from starvation. His kindness, born from his faith, changed their lives and secured the future of his people.

Dorcas's charity Described in the book of Acts, Dorcas (also called Tabitha) was a woman "full of good works and acts of charity" who was known for making clothes for the poor and widows. Her death caused immense grief in her community. In response to their pleading, the Apostle Peter was moved to resurrect her, demonstrating that her genuine kindness had a powerful impact on those around her and brought the community together.

Jesus and the woman caught in adultery When a woman was brought before Jesus by religious leaders who intended to stone her, Jesus intervened with unusual kindness. By writing on the ground and challenging her accusers with the words, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her," he dismantled their self-righteousness. His action, and subsequent forgiveness toward the woman, saved her life and taught a profound lesson about grace.

[Source: Wikipedia]

 

The Paradox of Habit

What slowly eases
habits of being around—
they suffocate us
and intoxicate us
all at once,

like smoke that lingers
long after the fire is gone,
like voices we carry
though their speakers are silent.

We mistake them for comfort,
but they press close,
wrapping us in patterns
we forgot we chose.

And when they loosen—
a sudden hush,
a window opening
onto air we never knew
was ours to breathe.

 

what was, is

the mountain holds
its silence, just as it held
not as a threat
but as a question

you move upward,
each step leaving behind
the weight you once
believed was yours

air thins,
yet vision clears
stone becomes less
a barrier,
more a passage

what seemed immovable
is only the outline of fear
what remained remains
as the horizon
unfolding without beginning
furthered with steps

The Weight of Gold, the Grace of God

I chased the gold, the shining gleam,
Through broken days and half-lost dreams.
My hands were glued to fleeting things,
Blind to what true goodness brings.

I joined the guild of grasp and gain,
Where greed was guarded, granted grain
Each grade I climbed, each deal I made,
Left deeper wounds that never fade.

I’d grind the system from place to place,
Masking gripe with shallow grace.
The world said “go,” and so I ran,
A gnawed and ghastly ghost of man.

They called me gud in jest and scorn—
A fool, a fraud, by fortune torn.
Even gord and goard meant more than me,
For I had lost what makes souls free.

But in the quiet, I heard a sound,
A whisper rising from the ground.
Not loud, not proud—but good and kind,
It stirred the ashes of my mind.

"Return," it said, "no need to hide.
Let go of pride—let Me inside."
I fell, undone, no mask to wear,
And found my broken soul laid bare.

And then—oh God!—Your light poured in,
Not to condemn, but cleanse my sin.
You were the guide I never knew,
The truth beneath the lies I grew.

Redemption came, not dressed in gold,
But in a mercy quiet and bold.
Not earned by grade or guild or fame,
But by the power of Your name.

Now I walk, though scarred, made new,
With heart unglued from what’s untrue.
God, You are good. You broke my fall.
You are my gold—my all in all. 

The Sailing Time

The Sailing Time

I launched paper boats
in the rain,
their fragile sails trembling,
their voyages endless
in my mind.
Even when the water
pulled them under,
I dreamed them rising again—
undaunted, sailing to places
I could never name.

From the balcony, I clung
to the last outline of
my father,
his figure swallowed
by the street,
his absence a hollow
that footsteps in the
evening would mend.
The soft strike of shoes
on stone—
our secret signal to
scatter toys,
to open books,
to pretend wisdom
already lived in us.

But time is a thief
that trades play for
silence,
imagination for routine.
We give away so much—
our days, our people,
our tender illusions.
And the heaviest gift
surrendered
is innocence itself,
slipping from our hands
like paper boats
that do not rise again.

 

Le temps en voile

Je lançais des bateaux
dans la pluie battante,
leurs voiles fragiles
frémissaient de peur.

Même si l’eau sombre
les engloutît soudain,
je voulais qu’ils voguent,
hardis, renaissants.

Du balcon j’attendais
le dernier contour
de mon père absent,
avalé par la rue.

Ses pas du soir venaient,
douce percussion,
signe clandestin
pour fermer nos jeux,

ouvrir des cahiers,
feindre la sagesse
qui déjà, peut-être,
habitât nos fronts.

Mais le temps dérobe :
il troque le silence
contre nos éclats,
nos songes contre l’ombre.

Nous donnons nos jours,
nos êtres, nos rêves.
Le plus grand des dons
qu’il exige encore :

l’innocence pure,
qui fuit de nos mains
tel un frêle bateau
ne se redressant plus.

Knowing I, self

it is here now
yet it is nowhere

it is physical
it is material
yet it is not

it can hear you
yet it doesn’t listen

it is trapped
in life’s turmoil
yet it is free
absolutely

it is the most concrete
yet it is abstract

it is tied with you
every moment
yet it is unattached

it is finite and minute
yet it is endless and vast

Strange

 Strange

I cannot refuse my being
it clings, relentless
yet when I reach for “I,”
it slips, elusive.

the most concrete
the most abstract

A name stitched loosely,
a jacket ill at ease
my body writes its riddles
in scars and wrinkles.

Race, culture, origin
cupboards full, yet soul
unseen.

The sun crosses the sides,
in front of the eyes
every minute of the day
bit by bit
yet I know for sure
it doesn’t move an inch.

The horizon’s line
a seam sewn by illusion,
the desert offers mirages
castles of air that dissolve,
photographs pause time,
but time sneaks past their
frame, we plant flags on wind,
claiming smoke as homeland.

the most abstract 
the most concrete

Ancestry whispers in blood,
branches broken, voices fading,
mirrors stack in drawers, each
reflection another mask.

Fights erupt for shadows, names,
borders, empty crowns
strange!
We duel for ghosts stitched in
fragile terrain.

Perhaps the “I” is a thread
of spider silk a cup held warmly
at dawn or a gaze that lingers,
unspoken, yet understood.

I stop seeking as if “I” were a coin
instead I listen: seas remembering
ships, earth holding footsteps,
strange — to exist as a witness,
an actor, strange, magnificent,
a song in between illusion on one hand
and on the other it appears real.

Étrange

Je ne puis refuser mon être
il s’accroche, implacable.
Pourtant, quand je tends
la main vers le « je »,
il s’échappe, insaisissable.

le plus concret
le plus abstrait 

Un nom cousu à la hâte,
une veste mal ajustée ;
mon corps écrit ses énigmes
en cicatrices et en rides.

Race, culture, origine
des armoires pleines,
mais l’âme invisible
le soleil traverse mes yeux,
minute après minute,
jour après jour, et pourtant
je sais avec certitude
qu’il ne bouge pas d’un pouce.

La ligne de l’horizon,
couture brodée d’illusions
le désert offre des mirages
châteaux d’air qui se dissolvent,
les photographies figent le temps,
mais le temps glisse hors du cadre.

le plus abstrait 
le plus concret

Nous plantons des drapeaux
dans le vent,
réclamant la fumée pour patrie,
l’ascendance murmure dans le sang,
branches brisées, voix qui s’effacent.

Des miroirs s’empilent dans
des tiroirs, chaque reflet,
un autre masque. Des luttes
éclatent pour des ombres,
des noms, des frontières,
des couronnes vides.

Étrange ! Nous croisons le fer
pour des fantômes cousus dans
une terre fragile. Peut-être que
le « je » est un fil de soie d’araignée,
une tasse tiède tenue à l’aube,
ou un regard qui demeure
muet, mais compris.

Je cesse de chercher,
comme si le « je » était
une pièce perdue. Je
préfère écouter : les mers se
souvenant des navires,
la terre gardant la trace des pas.

Étrange, magnifique
un chant suspendu entre illusion
et ce qui paraît réel,
frémissement d’un mystère éternel.

অচেতন সহমরণ

পৃথিবী জ্বলছে
অশান্ত মহাসাগর ক্ষুব্ধ সব
মহাদেশ, ক্রদ্ধ পর্বতমালা
চিন্তিত আকাশ, বাতাস, আলো। 

ইরাক ইরান ইস্রায়েল নেপাল
জর্জরিত যুদ্ধে নাজেহাল 
ক্ষমতার উন্মত্ত নেশা
হিংসা অনাহার অবিচার
বেভিচার অহংকার
এই ঘূর্ণিঝড়ে ঘুরপাক খাচ্ছে
মুখরা মানুষের, নির্বাক প্রাণীদের
শুনি আর্তনাদ হাহাকার। 

আমাদের আদরের
সবেধন নীলমনি গ্রহ
শিক্ষা স্নেহ সভ্যতা
মুখোসে আজ বিধ্বস্ত
বিপর্যস্ত।    

যে মারছে যে মরছে
সবাই যে ডালে বসে আছে
সেই ডালই কাটছে।

বোমা, ড্রোন আরো কত
হুঙ্কার চলছে দিনরাত
প্রতিদিন অহরহ। 

আজ কার কাছে করব প্রার্থনা
কার কাছের যাব নিয়ে
স্বার্থের ঝুলি, ফেলি দীর্ঘনিশ্বাস
বুদ্ধিহরণ হয়েছে। চলছে
সহমরণের প্রতিযোগিতা।

সেই প্রাচীন চিন্তা, সেই বৃদ্ধ
মনোভাব কেন? নতুন প্রযুক্তি,
নতুন ভাবে পুরোনো জিঘাংসাকেই
জন্ম দিচ্ছে কেন, এই প্রশ্ন থাক
আজ মানুষের কাছে, মানুষের হাতে।

অস্ত্রশস্ত্র কবে হবে সম্পূর্ণ বর্জন
ঘৃণা হিংসার কবে হবে বিসর্জন।

আমাদের হাওয়া মাটি জল
আলো আজ কত ক্লান্ত, তারা
বলছে তারস্বরে একই কথা
আমাদের বাঁচাও, আমাদের বাঁচাও।  

আসুক নতুন সকাল, একটু স্বস্তি পাই।
সুখ, শান্তি, সমৃদ্ধি, যা আমরা
মনেপ্রাণে চাই, একসাথে নতুন ভাবে
গড়ি এস সকলেই।  

জ্বলন্ত ধরা ভারাক্রান্ত জীবন
আসুক ফিরে আবার শান্তি,
ওই শুদ্ধ, ওই পবিত্র মন
জ্বলজ্বল করুক আকাশের তারা
সৃষ্টির আশীর্বাদে, চারিদিক যাক ভেসে
প্রাচুর্যে পরিপূর্ণতায় নতুন সূর্য উঠুক
নতুন আলোয় হেসে।   

----

Collective destruction

The world is burning —
the oceans restless, continents
enraged, mountain ranges furious;
the sky, the wind, the light — all anxious.

Iraq, Iran, Israel, Nepal — bruised and
gasping in war, power’s maddening
intoxication, worse than grass,
hunger for violence, injustice,
shameless cruelty, pride — 
in this cyclone they whirl:
clamorous humans, mute creatures. 
I hear their howls, their lamentations.

Our beloved, tender jewel — this blue
planet of learning, of affection,
of civilization — wears a mask and
lies in ruins, undone.

Who kills, who dies — the one who sits
on the branch cuts the very limb
they perch on. What morons!

Bombs, drones — how many roars go
on, day and night, relentless as ever.

To whom should I offer prayer now?
To whom shall I entrust the purse
of my hopes? 

We expel long sighs; wisdom is stolen.
The contest of mutual annihilation proceeds.

Why this ancient thinking, this senescent
attitude?  Why does new technology,
new methods, keep birthing the
same old hatred? 

This question remains with humanity —
in the hands of humankind.

When will weapons be wholly abandoned?
When will hatred and violence be cast away? 

Our air, soil, waters, light — how weary
they are; they speak with the same voice:
*Save us, save us.*

May a new morning come; may we find
some respite.  Happiness, peace,
prosperity — what we long for
in heart and soul — let us build them
together in a new way, all of us.

Let the burdened, burning earth
and the weighted lives return to calm. 
Let that pure, sacred spirit blaze anew
like a star in the sky — a blessing of creation. 
Let abundance flow in every direction;
let a new sun rise, laughing in fresh light.

---

Destruction collective

Le monde brûle —
océans agités,
continents en flammes,
montagnes furieuses ;
ciel, vent, lumière —
tout tremble d’angoisse.

Irak, Iran, Israël,
Népal meurtris,
haletants de guerre,
ivres de pouvoir :
faim de violence,
orgueil insensé,
cruauté nue.

Dans ce cyclone —
humains clamants,
bêtes muettes.
J’entends leurs cris.

Notre joyau bleu,
tendre planète,
mère du savoir,
gît en ruine,
masquée, défaite.

Qui tue ? qui meurt ?
Celui qui s’assoit
sur la branche
et la tranche.
Ô insensés !

Bombes, drones,
leurs rugissements
déferlent sans trêve,
jour et nuit.

À qui prier ?
À qui confier
ma bourse d’espoir ?

Soupirs profonds —
la sagesse volée.
L’anéantissement
s’avance.

Pourquoi la pensée
si vieille, sénile ?
Pourquoi les techniques
toujours nouvelles
enfanteraient-elles
la même haine ?

La question demeure
entre nos mains.

Quand les armes
seront-elles abolies ?
Quand la haine, la violence
seront-elles rejetées ?

Air, sol, eau, lumière —
las, ils supplient :
**Sauvez-nous.**

Qu’un matin neuf
puisse surgir,
qu’un répit vienne.
Bonheur, paix, prospérité —
bâtissons-les ensemble.

Que la terre brûlée,
que les vies pesantes
retrouvent le calme.
Que l’esprit pur
flamboie encore,
tel une étoile,
bénédiction du ciel.

Que l’abondance
se répande partout.
Qu’un soleil neuf
se lève, riant
d’une lumière fraîche.

দৈনন্দিন

সারাদিন ধরে
মাঝি জাল ফেলছে
কিছু মাছ পড়েছে জড়িয়ে,
কিছু গেছে পালিয়ে,
যারা কিনা বন্ধনমুক্ত। 

সংসারের মায়াজাল,
বহুজন পরে ধরা
ছাড়া পায় তারা
যারা হয় মুক্ত, ভক্ত
ঠাকুরের, হয়না দিশেহারা। 

লাফিয়ে বেরিয়ে
আসে ঐ মাছেদের মত
সকাল সন্ধে বিকাল
করে না স্পর্শ
তাদের স্বার্থের জঞ্জাল।

----

In and Out of the Net

All day long
the fishermen cast their nets.
Some fish are held in bondage,
others slip away—
the ones who escape all binding.

In the net of worldly illusion
countless lives are caught;
yet freedom shines for those
who bond with the Lord,
never lose in delusion’s haze.

They leap away,
like fish that break the mesh—
morning, noon, and evening
untouched, unswayed
by the litter of selfish desires.

---

Entre les mailles du filet

Tout le jour long les pêcheurs vont jetant,
Leurs lourds filets qui luisent sur les flots.
Certains poissons y tombent en bondage,
D’autres s’enfuient, déliés de tout lien.

Dans les rets vains des mirages du monde,
Bien des humains se laissent enchaîner ;
Mais la clarté sourit à ceux qui prient,
À ceux qui vont sans s’égarer jamais.

Comme les fins poissons qui rompent l’onde,
Ils jaillissent, libres, hors de l’écueil ;
Leur cœur, matin, midi, jusqu’à la nuit,
Reste indemne aux fardeaux de l’égoïsme.

The Sun on Top

The Sun on Top

My family, my friends — my delight,
In my heart they shine so bright.
With them I smile, with them I stay,
No shadow falls when they’re in play.

I drift through mornings, drift through night,
I wander streets where dreams take flight.
Between the dusk and each new dawn,
I find the joy I rest upon.

When despair betrays my hope,
I cry without pause, without scope.
My eyes at once call out my mates,
They blaze like the sun at heaven’s gates.

Like the sunflower follows the sun’s long run,
I turn toward them, thirsty for the fun.
Their gazes warm my soul in the winters,
Their voices take me to my universe.

I sing, I dance, I laugh my way
No fear, no shame to cloud the day.
I know life isn’t always kind,
But friends and family make it mine.

Le soleil au top

Ma famille et mes amis,
Ça me plaît beaucoup.
Dans mon cœur ils me font coucou,
Avec eux je souris toujours,
Y a pas de souci quand ils m’entourent.

Je balance ma vie
Les matins et les nuits,
Je glisse sur les chemins,
Je flâne dans les rues,
Entre les soirs et les bonjours
Je trouve mon bonheur, mon paradis.

Quand les désespoirs me trompent,
Je pleure sans arrêt, sans stop,
Mes yeux d’un coup cherchent mes potes,
Ils brillent comme le soleil au top.

Comme le tournesol suit le soleil dans la voie,
Je me tourne vers eux, assoiffé de leur joie,
Leurs regards réchauffent mes hivers,
Leurs voix m'emmènent vers mon univers.

Je chante, je danse, je bavarde, je plaisante,
Sans limite, sans peur, sans aucune honte.
Je sais que la vie n’est pas toujours souriante,
Ma famille, mes amis, font mon monde.

The French version came first with this poem. I am overjoyed.

 

Where the poem is born

There lies a poem
from its rhythm
I hear the joy, the pain.

Its beats tell me a
thousand stories
the words failed.

Its meters there sing
the most prosaic songs
the form couldn't contain.

Hum goes the tone
grace takes the note
its sounds numb the ground
the sense falls to flow.

 

Là où naisse le poème

Là gise un poème,
que dans son rythme
j’entende la joie, la douleur.

Que ses battements me disent
mille histoires
que nul mot ne pût dire.

Que ses mètres chantent
les plus prosaïques chansons
que la forme ne pût contenir.

Qu’il fredonne un ton,
que la grâce prenne la note,
que ses sons pèsent la terre,
et que le sens s’écoule en flot.