A cinematic cliche this - the man at the window seat
Whose express eye glides down companion rails,
Whilst inwardly his roaming brooks no grooves -
The journey from memory to desire is brief.
What he fears is the journey into in-consequence,
The dismay of being without thoughts, matching the dumb,
Snow-dead landscape. Is this the state
The Hindus have striven after, draining the mind
Carefully of care, consciously of knowing,
So that the mystic God-fire would engulf it?
It seems so easy, now that the clacking of the rails
Is but a drone (such as the attuned ear
Strains from the chill of space, the vibrant 'OM') .
Half-thoughts come and go like half-shapes at the window,
Intentions jot him and are made memos,
His mind is emptied like a leaky vessel.
A sudden impulse springs into the void:
'I must repeat Creation! Proton by proton
I must bead the universe, invest each cell
With Life! '
Instantly dismissed, this thought gives way
To a familiar Angst about his luggage.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem