The test of time

It's ages, since we saw each other
Can't recall, when we talked last.
But, every part of you is still vivid,
And it feels as if 'twas yesterday.

At one time you were near,
But oblivious to my presence.
I was timid, wordless, immature
I felt it, but, was utterly unsure.

Now I know and understand
What it was, and it still is,
And will be left behind,
As it has stood, the test 'f time.

But, I'm erased from your mind.
As you have, an other priority
Other people, other proclivity
And hope, is just a luxury.

But still, I want you to know,
you're the image of my soul,
that 'us', was meant to be
whatever be, the destiny!

Yes, I can wait, till eternity!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=efK9sQuCVaA&feature=fvw

I cannot remember my mother

I cannot remember my mother,

only sometime in the midst of my play

a tune seems to hover over my playthings,

the tune of some song that she used to

hum while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother

but when in the early autumn morning

the smell of the shiuli flowers floats in the air,

the scent of the morning service in the

temple comes to me as the scent of my mother.

I cannot remember my mother

only when from bedroom window

I send my eyes into the blue of the distant sky,

I feel that the stillness of my mother's gaze on my face

has spread all over the sky.

  --- Rabindranath Tagore

Fake expressions, Happiness disguised.

Synthetic paid smiles,
that make you pay-
The beautiful receptionist,
charming air-hostess,
waitress with hot soup!
Forgot ever-blithe ads?
The perfect couple,
Doting mothers-chubby children.
Pretenses of a perfect world,
Ruses for profit, with
Fake expressions,
Happiness disguised.

Familiar people,
daily 'Hi's' and 'Bye's';
Feigned contentment,
Strained cheeks,
Abnormal kinks
in mundane life,
amid raging storms,
turbulent mind.
Lessons of courtesy from
moral science classes ?
Yes, but, still
Fake expressions,
Happiness disguised.

Few Words on the Soul

We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.

Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.

Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.

It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.

For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.

Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.

It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.

Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.

We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.

Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.

It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.

-- Wislawa Szymborska
(translated from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)