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| Alok Mishra |
DIVINE ROBE
O weaver!Weave a robe for me,
Embroidering with the stars,
Shining with the golden rays
Of the sun,
Coming from my monarch's palace.
Whiteness of the silvery clouds
Be spread all around;
You have no bound;
Yield it a princely grace
That I may found
A gorgeous space
In the heart kind
Of my Lord.
Place on it elegant cone-bearing trees
That render a message
To go straight
Without entangling
In attractive and ephemeral bushes.
Icy surface with lotus-pink,
Blending of red and white
Will reach my robe
The peak of purity.
The velvety and soothing robe
Will give me deliverance
From my old garments
That are piercing my innocence
With thorny attraction.
I will wear the beautiful robe
And go to my master's room;
Will sit under his shadow
Forever.
O MY PIONEER
O Deep Ocean,Keep on accepting my simple waves
As thou hast infinite space
In the depth of thy heart.
I have no sense
How to present myself
Before thee
And prove my modesty.
When my dancing ripples
Descend on the rock heartless,
They receive the agony;
And comes the shrill yelp
From my tender anatomy.
When a sharp leaf makes wounds,
On my structure
I do nothing but to weep
And find solace by recalling my origin:
the heart kind;
When I come amidst the war of winds-East and West -
I cannot maintain my conscious;
Where to go.
I realise myself to be wholly lost.
From a far;
Beyond my approach;
Simple stars watch
Every moment I endure,
And descend on my lap to heal me.
The clouds in the sky
Are unable to bear my sorrow;
And they cry.
The moon comes and plays with me all the night
To make me less sad.
These friends- the stars, the clouds and the moon-
Will tell thee my torment soon ,
When thou ask for the proof clear
Of my straightforwardness,
O my pioneer!
DANCING PEACOCK
O the great harpist!Let me dance
With the tone of thy harp.
Strengthen my tearful and trembling conscious,
That I would not fall
In the falling tone;
While dancing
I would have your beneficiary image
In the depth of my heart
Even in a rising one.
Sprinkling colours a lot
On fragrant flowers
Of dales,
When my plume,
Taking hues in her lap,
Stretches herself in the enchanting weather;
When the sun peeps
Through cloudy veil
Shyly;
When eager droplets
From the velvety clouds
Come to caress
My multicoloured plumage;
Our frameless existences
Magnetise one another.
O the great musician!
You, master of generosity,
Have bestowed
Blessing of blue
On my poor feathers;
I have a sky - like faith,
Eternal and adamant,
That the beautiful dawn
Will come
When I and you
Be one,
Not separated two.
