How easily we forget that
A passionately new dawn
Sinks into cloudy darkness,
While holy Yamuna silently
Whispers mystical rhythms
Floating over sullen winds

I have lost all sense of time;
Used and thrown outside
Like this plastic chang jug
Attracting swarms of flies;
Still hope must live large
And dreams rise at dawn.

In the years that followed
My Rangzen quests were
Washed away by the rain;
My voice was silenced by
Songs of the middle path
That divides us into camps

I have lost my way through
This storm of controversy
And left with a dark choice
My guru or my intuition —
If I should now plunge in
Would the river be clear?