You are not fate; nor is pain eternal;

Time spent with you, promises of love

have drowned like one last tear shed at night.

Sleepy eyes, lips deceptive of pain

are a story — half-remembered, half-forgotten.

I have no buds, nor thorns nor dust on my breast.

Tired morning lurks in evening’s shadows;

Desire’s caravan returned, unable to find its journey’s end.

There was a hope, but now it slumbers in the dust!

.

I stand at crossroads, puzzled, not sure where to step; 

Perhaps I’m not yet free of my own chains.

I, too, am a prisoner of time’s games; 

Perhaps I am all pain . . . but not a complaint.

.

What have I to do with the flickering stars in your eyes? 

Your tears, melted by fiery sights,

Could not wash away the stains of grief upon my heart.

What have I to do with your blossoming days?

I don’t even worry about my future anymore!

.

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 32 – 33