THE PRESENT IS BLIND
The Eye is a machine of printing All the printed things are not personal
The four grapes of the tree fell down But the beauty lies in the tree itself
The juice suckers are defeated Though their hands are wet Their throat is still dry
The tamarind tree completely dried When it is filled with tender leaves and flowers
It seems to be a queen with a crown
The village is like a ripe land When there was a flow of stream
But now it remained a cow of no use
The living being stretched its hand On the death bed
Without sense by that time
Then the clouds rained But not a single drop of water
It rained only the stories
The remainders are the marks on the eyelids The present alone is blind in History