A Letter To Her Husband / Anne Bradstreet

Absent upon Public Employment 

My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more,
My joy, my magazine, of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever,
If but a neck, soon should we be together.
I, like the Earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac,
Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such fridged colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father's face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one. 

Scent of Love / Hoshang Merchant

It is raining a small rain
A gentle rain over all the world
Gentle like that love which is so hard
to sustain or to receive or to reciprocate
Because men are greedy: They bite and tear.

You from the mountains

I from the plains
I from the city

You from the forest
I a hunter and you a deer.

The city is full of the smell of my dear today
The musk mingles with the rain
Its scent spreads
This morning I lie in bed dreaming of you
I was to be hunter but I'm an inert deer.

Sensing danger you wait
And I sense danger with you
Why is the world so crazed for venison?
I wonder at a living creature
Who must so eat a living creature!

And suddenly the wounded doe dies for you
She has dragged herself to you to die before you
Her stag
Did she not stay one night inert
When you slew her in bed
Just as tonight I wish to slay you?

Does not our passion only bring suffering
And do we all not die daily a little
Satisfying our longings?
Play go play though your scent drives me wild
And I have myself become wild in my love for a wild thing

Slay or be slain
And your hand will not be cleansed of blood ever again
The pain the pain of love is everywhere
And the scent of this musk cannot be washed even in a rain.

All The World's A Stage / William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 

किस तरह मिलें कोई बहाना नहीं मिलता / मिर्ज़ा रज़ा बर्क़

किस तरह मिलें कोई बहाना नहीं मिलता

हम जा नहीं सकते उन्हें आना नहीं मिलता

फिरते हैं वहाँ आप भटकती है यहाँ रूह

अब गोर में भी हम को ठिकाना नहीं मिलता

बदनाम किया है तन-ए-अनवर की सफ़ा ने

दिल में भी उसे राज़ छुपाना नहीं मिलता

दौलत नहीं काम आती जो तक़दीर बुरी हो

क़ारून को भी अपना ख़ज़ाना नहीं मिलता

आँखें वो दिखाते हैं निकल जाए अगर बात

बोसा तो कहाँ होंट हिलाना नहीं मिलता

ताक़त वो कहाँ जाएँ तसव्वुर में जो ऐ 'बर्क़'

बरसों से हमें होश में आना नहीं मिलता

The End and the Beginning / Wislawa Szymborska

After every war 
someone has to clean up. 
Things won’t 
straighten themselves up, after all. 

Someone has to push the rubble 
to the side of the road, 
so the corpse-filled wagons 
can pass. 

Someone has to get mired 
in scum and ashes, 
sofa springs, 
splintered glass, 
and bloody rags. 

Someone has to drag in a girder 
to prop up a wall. 
Someone has to glaze a window, 
rehang a door. 

Photogenic it’s not, 
and takes years. 
All the cameras have left 
for another war. 

We’ll need the bridges back, 
and new railway stations. 
Sleeves will go ragged 
from rolling them up. 

Someone, broom in hand, 
still recalls the way it was. 
Someone else listens 
and nods with unsevered head. 
But already there are those nearby 
starting to mill about 
who will find it dull. 

From out of the bushes 
sometimes someone still unearths 
rusted-out arguments 
and carries them to the garbage pile. 

Those who knew 
what was going on here 
must make way for 
those who know little. 
And less than little. 
And finally as little as nothing. 

In the grass that has overgrown 
causes and effects, 
someone must be stretched out 
blade of grass in his mouth 
gazing at the clouds.

(Translated from Polish by Joanna Trzeciak)

कुशलगीत / मैथिलीशरण गुप्त

हाँ, निशान्त आया,
तूने जब टेर प्रिये, कान्त, कान्त, उठो, गाया---
चौँक शकुन-कुम्भ लिये हाँ, निशान्त गाया । 
          आहा! यह अभिव्यक्ति,
          द्रवित सार-धार-शक्ति ।
          तृण तृण की मसृण भक्ति
                        भाव खींच लाया ।
तूने जब टेर प्रिये, "कान्त, उठो" गाया !
          मगध वा सूत गये,
          किन्तु स्वर्ग-दूत नये,
          तेरे स्वर पूत अये,
                          मैंने भर पाया ।
तूने जब टेर प्रिये, "कान्त, उठो" गाया ।

Round and Round / Vikram Seth

After a long and wretched flight 
That stretched from daylight into night, 
Where babies wept and tempers shattered 
And the plane lurched and whiskey splattered 
Over my plastic food, I came 
To claim my bags from Baggage Claim 

Around, the carousel went around 
The anxious travelers sought and found 
Their bags, intact or gently battered, 
But to my foolish eyes what mattered 
Was a brave suitcase, red and small, 
That circled round, not mine at all. 

I knew that bag. It must be hers. 
We hadnt met in seven years! 
And as the metal plates squealed and clattered 
My happy memories chimed and chattered. 
An old man pulled it of the Claim. 
My bags appeared: I did the same.