Friday, February 17, 2012

Lakshyahira Das

The Gift

The whistling of the wind
Loses its way crossing the cut banana leaves.

Do I live or die in the
Clear scent of the wind
Find or lose the shade of simple satisfaction.

Even you do not know that in the
Floating scent of each flower, in the
Easy whistling of each bird,
Is the single signal of the road to Diksou.

The person inside me is
Calm in his desperation.
With his both hands, he collects
Each of your gifts
— of love and hatred.

Digsou: Name of a place

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