I.122. kaun murali sabd sun anand bhayo
WHAT IS THAT flute whose music thrills me with joy?
The flame burns without a lamp;
The lotus blossoms without a root;
Flowers bloom in clusters;
The moon-bird is devoted to the moon;
With all its heart the rain-bird longs for the shower of rain;
But upon whose love does the Lover concentrate His entire life?

I HAVE LOOKED on this picture in many a month of March when the mustard is in bloom-this lazy line of the water and the grey of the sand beyond, the rough path along the river-bank carrying the comradeship of the field into the heart of the village.
        I have tried to capture in rhyme the idle whistle of the wind, the beat of the oar-strokes from a passing boat
        I have wondered in my mind how simply it stands before me, this great world: with what fond and familiar ease it fills my heart, this encounter with the Eternal Stranger.

SILENCE WILL carry your voice like the nest that holds the sleeping birds.