The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, July 11, 2020

What She Said

In the tiny village
on the hillside
where rainclouds play,

the grazing milch cows
remember their young
and return.

In the forest,
the white flowers
of the green-leaved jasmine
redden with the red evening,

and, friend,
I cannot bear it.


--Vayilanrevan (classic Tamil)
translated by A. K. Ramanujan

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