Vinod Anand | 09 Sep 2011

A few lines on the art of living.

The art of living life is mine alone
Lonely am I
But not to that extent.

When I told the tale of my heart
No none understood, no one sympathized
When I looked at myself,
Understood and knew myself,
Strength swelled in my mind
And I told my tale to myself.


What love, what tales of love?
Let me forget the years that have passed.
Time will now move unceasing-
Hours of Loneliness will keep increasing.

The pace of life, its direction
Changed in such a way
I began from a certain place
And ended nowhere.

The past is my own
Alive are many of its facets still
In their memories, drowned am I,
Time’s own unfinished story it resembles.

Effect of loneliness kept on increasing,
Often have I traveled away from myself-
To forget does not seem so much difficult.


When did I travel, from where
And for what,
I do not remember
The journey continued
Restlessness increased.
I crossed many destinations
The ultimate destination
Ever lay beyond reach.

The shadows of sorrow
Have now lengthened
Light shall come
But only after End.

For how long have I been entrapped
In my own tales,
The face of time has changed
But not so much.

Sorrows are strewn
On the path way to life
Nowhere is there
Any joy to be found
Distances have ceased
Somewhat meanwhile
But nowhere is there
Any light to be found.

Extracted from NAZARIYA by Vinod Anand “NAZAR”, and translated by Meera “Panigrahi