With sleepy, weary eyes,
And a half-empty bottle in hand,
The drunkard lay sprawled
Upon a roadside mound.
Dawn had only just broken,
The sun had not yet risen high.
His sleep remained unfinished,
Awakened by the blaring horns nearby.
On the streets of Banaras,
A stream of Shiva devotees flowed.
Immersed in his own sacred drink,
He stood alone amid the crowd.
As I looked upon his face,
A feeling quietly arose in me:
“People are running without reason,
While I lie here like a king, carefree.”
“So many worries burden them,
Why all this endless race?
They seem so restless and frantic,
As though fire were at their backs.”
“With a bottle worth a hundred rupees,
I drift beyond this worldly sphere.
I care for no one, inside or out,
Nothing concerns me here.”
“I am no Shiva, whose wife
Would grind bhang and dhatura for him.
Nor can I, like him, command
The serpents and the world within.”
“No one understands my words;
They call me mad and deranged.
They see me as poor and worthless,
And treat me with constant disdain.”
“But let them think whatever they will—
What difference does it make to me?
With my beloved bottle by my side,
I live alone, yet utterly free.”
— Vidya
Translated by chait gpt
vidus 
टिप्पणी करे