Koi paar nadi ke gata

bhang nishaa ki neeravta kar
(Breaking the silence of the night)
is dehaati gaane ka swar
(this rural/folk song's notes)
kakdi ke kheto se uthkar, aata jamuna par leharaata
(rising from cucumber's field, wish it came in waves on the river Jamuna)
koi paar nadi ke gaata
(wish someone sang across the river)

honge bhai bandhu nikat hi
(there could be relatives/friends nearby)
kabhi sochte honge ye bhi
(who may also be thinking sometimes)
is tat par bhi koi, uski tano se sukh pata
(somebody on this river bank may also seek solace / happiness from his song/raaga )
koi paar nadi ke gaata
(wish someone sang across the river)

aaj na jaane kyun hota mann
(Don't know why today this mind )
sun kar ye ekaaki gaayan
(after listening to the lonesome song)
sadaa ise main sunta rehta, sadaa ise ye gaata jaata
(always wants to listen to it, always wants to sing it)
koi paar nadi ke gaata
(wish someone sang across the river)

- Harivansh Rai Bachchan

Creation of a Pot

Rabindranath Tagore, Untitled (Striding Bird), 1928.

Within this earthen vessel are
bowers and groves, and with
it is the creator:
Within this vessel are the seven oceans
and the unnumbered stars.
The touchstone and the jewel
appraiser
are within;
and within is the eternal soundeth, and
the spring wells up
Kabi says: "Listen to me, my friend!
My beloved lord is within."

- Songs of Kabir, translated by Rabindranath Tagore

Sobremesa

Hesitantly, surrounded
by the mist that falls from days long gone,
we once more sit down to talk
and can't see each other.
Hesitantly, cut off in the depths of the mist.

On the table the breeze stirs slowly,
As we dream those who are absent draw close.
Leaves where bleak moss has passed long winters
now waken on the table-cloth.

Steam from the coffee cups drifts around us
and in the aroma we see old faces,
once more alive, float past
clouding the mirrors.

Empty chairs set straight
wait for those who, from far off,
will return later on.
We start talking
without seeing each other, without thought of time.

Hesitantly, in the mist
that grows and surrounds us,
we talk for hours without knowing
who is still alive and who is dead.

- Eugenio Montejo, Muerte y Memoria (1972), A Bright Moon For Fools