Throw his clay body into black earth’s bosom;

These silvery soft sunbeams

Sprouting from the stars and the moon,

This blue-heaven world,

These east-west shores,

These luscious, sweet fruits,

These invitations to unknown beauty

Will never wake him up.

Sorrow has robbed the light from his young face;

Miserable eyes opened in death

Saw that man

Closing all the doors

On a man like himself,

Has awakened brutality,

And the savoury piles of food

Had been buried beneath black veils,

And finally, earth’s arms proved faithful to him, an outcast in this world.

Will these delicate plants, branches,

Grow so that

One day, picking them,

We may put them to sleep in autumn’s arms?

.

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 98 – 99