One day in this misty field, no one will find me anymore, I know; The heart’s journey ended that day—gone to the cold, stony room, Or perhaps it will take some time to find solace—this field of the earth Will take a few days to forget, for the sake of a few Shalik in this field. In wonder and awe, I shall stare for a while from the lap of a dark bed, And does that golden hawk, wings outspread, still float from afar In the mist of the field today? Does it still fly toward that bare sky When evening turns like gold? Do the eyes of field mice among the soft stalks of grain still look toward the stars? When evening falls? Do bees still build their hives in the deep, thick branches of the Jamun tree? After tasting the honey, do they still fly away into the mist and the evening breeze— How far do they go, alas… or perhaps someone lights the fallen leaves of the Chalta tree Beneath the honey-hive—the bees fly away… they fall… they lie dead in the grass—
