the passion

The passion of my heart is sharp
and stealing ever on, brings pain;
burns like a stirred-up fire, smokeless;
wastes like a mortal fever every limb.
My father cannot save me nor my mother
nor even you, my friend.



on being full

No ornaments adorn
the glowing moon.
Stars are scattered
through th sky.
Love’s bow is frozen now,
and the dark lotus
sealed away.
The cuckoo’s moans
have melted to a gentle stillness,
the mild breathing of the breeze.
The campaka vine with its round clusters
has ceased its rhythmic swaying, and
beyond all this there is nothing
I can know.