Mōra bīṇā oṭhē kōn shurē bāji kōn nobo choñcolo chondē. My heart sings an unknown song. What are its lyrics? Momo ontora kompito āji nikhilēro hr̥doẏospondē. Nervous with anticipation my heart found fulfillment today.Āshē kōn taruṇo ośhānto, uṛē bosonoñcholoprānto-What youth appears as if unsettled from the world?Alōkēro nr̥ityē bonānto mukhorito odhīro ānondē, The light captures a dance while patiently waiting for happiness. Amboroprāṅgaṇamājhē nishoro moñjīro guñjē. The boundless sky rings of bells that resound over empty earth. Ośruto shē’i tālē bājē korotāli pollobokuñjē. The bells sing of the splendor of the forest leaves. Kār podoporośhono-āśhā tr̥iṇē tr̥iṇē orpilo bhāṣhā – Whose feet slowly comes revealing hope? What is its speech? Shomīrono bondhonohārā unmono kōn bonogondhē. In the midst of lost souls, who comes into this world with a new song?
Listen to the story told by the reed,
of being separated.
“Since I was cut from the reedbed,
I have made this crying sound.
Anyone apart from someone he loves
understands what I say.
Anyone pulled from a source
longs to go back.
At any gathering I am there,
mingling in the laughing and grieving,
a friend to each, but few
will hear the secrets hidden
within the notes. No ears for that.
Body flowing out of spirit,
spirit up from body: no concealing
that mixing. But it’s not given us
to see the soul. The reed flute
is fire, not wind. Be that empty.”
Hear the love fire tangled
in the reed notes, as bewilderment
melts into wine. The reed is a friend
to all who want the fabric torn
and drawn away. The reed is hurt
and salve combining. Intimacy
and longing for intimacy, one
song. A disastrous surrender
and a fine love, together. The one
who secretly hears this is senseless.
A tongue has one customer, the ear.
A sugarcane flute has such effect
because it was able to make sugar
in the reedbed. The sound it makes
is for everyone. Days full of wanting,
let them go by without worrying
that they do. Stay where you are
inside such a pure, hollow note.
Every thirst gets satisfied except
that of these fish, the mystics,
who swim a vast ocean of grace
still somehow longing for it!
No one lives in that without
being nourished every day.
But if someone doesn’t want to hear
the song of the reed flute,
it’s best to cut conversation
short, say good-bye, and leave.