Grinding the leaves and taking the roll
With sugar
And smiling to his full
Without rhyme or reason
And his mind delving far, flying into the skies
With the stars,
Not on earth,
The eyes abnormally red
And he talking nonsense.
Everything but dulled to the core,
The brain not working
But he calling it Shiva’s buti, a herbal thing.
I hearing,Hearing the sad and solemn music,Music of humanityThe orchestra music going onFrom the top other side stageStanding face to face the other side galleryAnd the circus artistes playingWith tigers, lions, foxes,Camels, elephants, horsesShowing acrobatic skills,Vaults and swings into the hanging nets,Going for a horse-ride,Mounting the elephants,The joker on the ass,The motorist in the cage…
For studiesAnd if you are a Hindustani,Go not to,Liver you in EnglandBut change you notThe culture of England.
How to tell aboutShiva DancingIn a mystic pose and postureOf His,Shiva, Shiva,The Mystic Art and Dance of His!
But a small man,A very small manJust like you.
The skiesOf the ireflies and the celestial lamps.Kissing you, kissed I the moon,A fair dancingIn the midst of the air and glistening orbs,Silvery light drizzling.Kissing you, kissed I the jasminesTaking the nights by surpise,Redolent with,Fragrancing and spraying with sweet scent.
Where the rivulet murmurs byWhere the arcades of trees shadow the regionWhere landscapes secluded and lonely delight byInto a world free from din and bustle,Dull and drab city life,Urban space and areaInto that orchard plot want I to sit and opineIn confidence,What man has,What Nature has?
