The roof is leaking...

Soruthihudu maniya maligi

Soruthihudu maniya maligi
agnaanadinda
soruthihudu maniya maligi

The roof is leaking
with ignorance
The roof is leaking

Soruthihudu maniya maligi
daroo gatti maalparilla
kaalakattaleyolage naan
melakeri mettalaare

The roof is leaking
There is no one to strenghten the timber
In this darkness that surrounds me
I cannot climb up there

Muruku toleyu huluku janthi
koredu saridu keela sadali
haraku chappara jerugindi
melakeri mettalaare

The wooden beam eaten by termites is broken
The bolts holding the beam have given away
The frame for the thatched tiles has holes in it
I cannot climb up there

Karaki hullu kasavu hatthi
haridu saalu irabi mutthi
jalada bharadi sariye mannu
volage horage ekavaagi

The dry grass on the roof is filled with filth
And is torn and ants are all over it
The mud is not able to hold the water
The inside and the outside have become one

Kaante kele karunadinda
bantu kaane hubbi maleyu
yento shishunaalaadheesha taanu
nintu porevanu yendu nambide

Oh mother! Listen to me with mercy
Heavy rains have come down on me
But I have fath in Shishunaaladeesha
He will protect me.

Translation- Pratap [http://www.youtube.com/user/pratapi]

Ma Shyama

Shyama maa ki amar kalo re
Shyama maa ki amar kalo

loke bole kali kalo
amar mon to bole na kalore
[kalo roope digombori](2)
hridipadyo kare mor alo re
Shyama maa ki amar kalo

shyama kakhono sweto kakhono pito
kakhono neel o lohito re
kakhono sweto kakhono pito
kakhono neel o lohito re
maaer se bhaab kemon bujhite na pari
se bhaab kemon bujhite na pari
bhabite janom gelo re
Shyama maa ki amar kalo

shyama kakhono purusho kakhono prokriti
kakhono sunnakaar
kakhono purusho kakhono prokriti
kakhono sunnakaar
maaer se bhaabo bhabia kamolakanto
se bhaabo bhabia kamolakanto
sahoje pagol holo re
Shyama maa ki amar kalo

[kalo roope digombori](2)
hridipadyo kare mor alo re
Shyama maa ki amar kalo re
shyama

Is my black Mother Syama really black?
People say Kali is black,
but my heart doesn't agree.
If She's black,
how can She light up the world?
Sometimes my Mother is white,
sometimes yellow, blue, and red.
I cannot fathom Her.
My whole life has passed
trying.

She is Matter,
then Spirit,
then complete Void.

It's easy to see
how Kamalakanta
thinking these things
went crazy.

Tale Of The Sands

Through an instrument, named Idires Shah, the tale of the Sands, got told.........

A bubbling Stream reached a desert, and found that it could not cross it. The water was disappearing into the fine sand, faster and faster. The Stream said aloud, "My destiny is to cross this desert, but I can see no way."

The voice of the Desert answered, in the hidden tongue of nature, saying, "The Wind crosses the desert, and so can you."
"But, whenever I try, I am absorbed into the sand; and even if I dash myself at the desert, I can only go a little distance."
"The Wind does not dash itself against the desert sand."

"But the Wind can fly, and I cannot."
"You are thinking in the wrong way; trying to fly by yourself is absurd. Allow the Wind to carry you over the sand."

"But how can that happen?"
"Allow yourself to be absorbed in the Wind."

The Stream protested that it did not want to lose its individuality in that way. If it did, it might not exist again.
This, said the Sand, was a form of logic, but it did not refer to reality at all. When the Wind absorbed moisture, it carried it over the desert, and then let it fall again like rain. The rain again became a river.

But how, asked the Stream, could it know that this was true?
"It is so, and you must believe it, or you will simply be sucked down by the sands to form, after several million years, a quagmire."
"But if that is so, will I be the same river that I am today?"

"You cannot in any case remain the same stream that you are today. The choice is not open to you; it only seems to be open. The Wind will carry your essence, the finer part of you. When you become a river again at the mountains beyond the sands, men may call you by a different name;
but you yourself, essentially, will know that you are the same. Today you call yourself such and such a river only because you do not know which part of it is even now your essence."

So the Stream crossed the desert by raising itself into the arms of the welcoming Wind, which gathered it slowly and carefully upward, and then let it down with gentle firmness, atop the mountains of a far-off land.
"Now," said the Stream, "I have learned my true identity."

But it had a question, which it bubbled up as it sped along:
"Why could I not reason this out on my own;
Why did the Sands have to tell me?
What would have happened if I had not listened to the Sands?"

Suddenly a small voice spoke to the Stream. It came from a grain of sand. "Only the Sands know, for they have seen it happen; moreover, they extend from the river to the mountain. They form the link, and they have their function to perform, as has everything.

The way in which the stream of life is to carry itself on its journey
is written in the Sands."

Six Words of Advice - Tilopa

	First short, literal translation	Later long, explanatory translation	Tibetan (Wylie transliteration)
1	Don’t recall	Let go of what has passed	mi mno
2	Don’t imagine	Let go of what may come	mi bsam
3	Don’t think	Let go of what is happening now	mi shes
4	Don’t examine	Don’t try to figure anything out	mi dpyod
5	Don’t control	Don’t try to make anything happen	mi sgom
6	Rest	Relax, right now, and rest	rang sar bzhag

Subh-e-Aazaadii
Ye daagh daagh ujaalaa, ye shab-gaziida sahar,
Vo intizaar thaa jis-kaa, ye vo sahar to nahiiN,
Ye vo sahar to nahiiN jis-kii aarzu lekar
Chale the yaar ke mil-ja`egi kahiiN na kahiN

Falak ke dasht meN taroN kii aakhiri manzil,
KahiN to hogaa shab-e sust mauj kaa sahil,
KahiN to jaake rukegaa safiina-e-gham-e-dil.

JawaaN lahu kii pur-asraar shaahrahoN se
Chale jo yaar to daaman pe kitne hath paRe;

Diyaar-e-husn kii be-sabr khwaabgaahoN se
Pukaarti-rahiiN baahen, badan bulaate-rahe;
Bahut 'aziiz thii lekin rukh-e-sahar ki lagan,
Bahut qariin thaa hasiinaN-e-nuur kaa daaman, ,
Subuk subuk thii tamannaa, dabii dabii thii thakan.

Sunaa hai ho bhii chukaa hai firaaq-e-zulmat-o-nuur,
Sunaa hai ho bhii chukaa hai visaal-e-manzil-o-gaam;

Badal-chukaa hai bahut ahl-e-dard kaa dastuur,
Nishaat-e-vasl halaal o 'azab-e-hijr haraam.

Jigar kii aag, nazar kii umang, dil kii jalan,
kisii pe chaara-e-hijraaN kaa kuchh asar hii nahiiN.
KahaaN se aa'ii nigaar-e-sabaa, kidhar ko ga'ii?
Abhii charaagh-e-sar-e-rah ko kuchh khabar hii nahiiN;
Abhii giraanii-e-shab meN kamii nahiiN aa'ii,
Najaat-e-diidaa-o-dil ki ghaRii nahiiN aa'ii;
Chale-chalo ke vo manjil abhii nahiiN aa'ii

The Dawn of Freedom (August 1947)

This leprous daybreak, this night-bitten dawn,
this is not the dawn we awaited with longing sighs;
this is not the dawn that drew our friends on
believing that, somewhere in the desert of these skies,
they would find the resting-place of the stars,
somewhere find where night’s sluggish tides reach shore,
somewhere find the boat of heartache and drop anchor.
When we friends set out by the secret byways of youth
how many hands bid us stay, pulling at our hems!
From eager bedchambers in the palace of truth,
sweet arms kept crying out, flesh calling us to come;
but dearer was the seductive face of daylight,
dearer still her robe aglow with sprites:
my longing seemed to buoy me, my weariness grew light.
It is said that the division of day from night is done,
it is said our goals are realized and unflawed;
but only the ways of our hurtful leaders are new-sprung,
collective joy decreed, the anguish of separation outlawed.
The fire in our livers, the burning in our hearts, the riots in our
eyes—
this severing cannot cure any of these.
When did that dear morning wind arrive—and must it go yet?
The lamps on these byroads have not felt its breeze;
no one has come to lighten this night’s heavy load yet,
our heart’s inheritance has not been bestowed yet.
Come with me, come, our goal lies down the road yet.

To the Unknown God

To the Unknown God (1864)

Once more, before I wander on
And turn my glance forward,
I lift up my hands to you in loneliness —
You, to whom I flee,
To whom in the deepest depths of my heart
I have solemnly consecrated altars
So that
Your voice might summon me again.

On them glows, deeply inscribed, the words:
To the unknown god.
I am his, although until this hour
I’ve remained in the wicked horde:
I am his—and I feel the bonds
That pull me down in my struggle
And, would I flee,
Force me into his service.

I want to know you, Unknown One,
You who have reached deep into my soul,
Into my life like the gust of a storm,
You incomprehensible yet related one!
I want to know you, even serve you.

(—Translation by Philip Grundlerhner)