In spring they always return.

Not there:
among the flowers and the foliage,
in the splendour of many colours.
where hearts mingle
as the source of the river of life.
They return again and again.
With the arrogance of youth
and the passion for work, they loved life
and embraced the silence of death.
They sacrificed their lives:
and with each death
they freed countless lives.

They are always with us.

They are always with him:
that child whose small feet trample the dew
on soft green grass,
who holds high the blood-rose in his hand
like a banner.
They are also with that blind old man
who finds the shadows of his ribs
on the iron railings near the monument.
And with that silent girl
who suddenly becomes a wave in this sea
of countless people.

Every spring they return.
Awake, they wake us to join them.
They give us words while yet they are still seeking a language.

               (translated by Pritish Nandy)

Return to:

Revised: April 13, 1996