Hindi

We seem to live in a fiction of our thoughts Pieced from sensation's fanciful traveller's tale, Or caught on the film of the recording brain, A figment or circumstance in cosmic sleep.

He has made into a thick and narrowing hedge Defending his small life from the Invisible; His being's kinship to infinity He has shut away from him into inmost self, Fenced off the greatnesses of hidden God.

A marvellous form responded to her gaze Whose sweetness justified life's blindest pain; All Nature's struggle was its easy price, The universe and its agony seemed worth while.

In this nether life of man drab-hued and dull, Yet filled with poignant small ignoble things, The conscious Doll is pushed a hundred ways And feels the push but not the hands that drive.

This huge world unintelligibly turns In the shadow of a mused Inconscience; It hides a key to inner meanings missed, It locks in our hearts a voice we cannot hear.

A creature insignificant and small Visited, uplifted by an unknown Power, Man laboured on his little patch of earth For means to last, to enjoy, to suffer and die.

A dream of living woke in Matter's heart, A will to live moved the Inconscient's dust, A freak of living startled vacant Time, Ephemeral in a blank eternity, Infinitesimal in a dead Infinite.

Our life's uncertain way winds circling on, Our mind's unquiet search asks always light, Till they have learned their secret in their source, In the light of the Timeless and its spaceless home, In the joy of the Eternal sole and one.

The little deities of Time's nether act Who work remote from Heaven's controlling eye, Plotted, unknown to the creatures whom they move, The small conspiracies of this petty reign