The mirror house of my self

Lit with the lamp of desire.

Everywhere

The circles of saffron light;

Though angles of the mirror can be different, 

The reflection of self is but one.

With its strokes on one reflection

Is born the magic of multiplicity in unity.

No one in the mirror-house solitude,

Only me—

I’m the idol

And idol-worshipper was well;

I give audience to the assembly of self; 

I praise its displays.

When the mischievous way of the breeze

Breaks the stagnation of the curtain in some window,

The whole play is spoiled;

A sunbeam from outside dwarfs the giant reflection.

.

O my unstable, useless self,

O you confined in the mirror-house by your own choice,

You are thinking that 

You’ll say everything which has been unsaid,

But you say nothing.

You think that you’ll pen a masterpiece, but you write nothing.

You think about government

But you do nothing.

.

And when in merely thinking, the watch of creativity

Slips from your paralysed hand,

You weep bitter tears.

.

O my unstable, useless self,

Come forth from the solitude of the mirror-house;

O the lamp of my desires,

Shed your light

Where there is the highway of my search.

Higher than the kings of cards and chess

Is the pawn

Who walks in his own way.

O my unstable, useless self,

Some thought

Some work,

Some word—!

.

          1963

.

From: Shab gasht (Evening Patrol). Allāhābād: Shabk̲h̲ūn Kitāb G̲h̲ar, 1969. pp. 39 – 41