A poem is a record of a discovery.
The birds have vanished into the sky, and now the last cloud drains away. We sit together, the mountain and me, until only the mountain remains.
Heaven is high, Earth Wide. Bitter between them flies my sorrow.
The world is like a great empty dream. Why should one toil away one's life?
Shade and light are different in every valley.
To wash and rinse our souls of their age-old sorrows,We drained a hundred jugs of wine. A splendid night it was. . . . In the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,But at last drunkenness overtook us;And we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,The earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet
You ask why I make my home n the mountain forest, and I smile, and am silent, and even my soul remains quiet: it lives in the other world which no one owns. The peach trees blossom, The water flows.
Whilst the Bihar calamity damages the body, the calamity brought about by untouchability corrodes the very soul.
But a wound unfelt is a wound unhealed.
It is time to lay to rest the notion that germs jump into people and cause diseases.
Man improves himself as he follows his path; if he stands still, waiting to improve before he makes a decision, he'll never move.