Trying to be happy.
The rice has been harvested, long ago it seems— Straw lies scattered in the fields and meadows. Broken leaves, husks, shattered eggs—snake skins, nests, and winter’s remnants.
By Asad Russelabout a year ago in Poets
The barriers of the earth—this body’s obstacles— Pain gathers in the heart; in the hands of dreams, I wish to lift myself up.
From field to field—across the entire noon, filling Asia’s skies— Vultures graze; humans see markets, camps, and settlements; silent plains
Their eyes refuse to close in sleep— On this spring night, I lie on my bed. —What time is it now? Late, so late! From that direction comes the sound of the sea,
My song— You will never hear it, not even when you come. Tonight, my call Will drift away in the wind of the path, Yet still, songs rise in my heart.
Meadow Moon The meadow moon gazes, At my face, to the right and left— Burnt fields, straw, stubble, cracks in the field,
Here, near the forest, I have set up my camp; All night, the southern breeze blows, Under the moonlight in the sky, I hear the call of a doe—
The morning sun lies with its head resting on the rice fields, Lazy and languid like an old farmer in the Kartik fields.
1st Half You know nothing—knowing nothing, All my songs still aim at you. When I fall in the winter storm— Like a leaf on the path, will you then
I move between light and shadow—not dreams, But some awareness stirs within my mind; Not dreams—not peace—not love, A consciousness is born in the heart.
We who have walked through the lonely straw fields on a Paush evening, Have seen by the edge of the field, the soft river’s women scattering
That day, on this earth— The shadow of the green isle—the rush of waves— Faded slowly from my waking eyes, Like sparks falling in mist.
