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The Poetry of Seshendra...
The Earth: A natural museum
The earth is a natural museum into which generations of flora and fauna set;
And our children, the wingless birds set, like rays of evening sun-
And sons of new generations rise from new
Wombs and new seeds, with new faces, surrounded
By new orbs of light only to weave new civilizations, for the pages of history,
Which keep bulging, until the axe of time descends on it mercilessly.
Sweat flows as an eternal under-current of history, the sinews of human machine work, to
Make this glittering superstructure remain, constantly creaking like gigantic wooden wheel, never at rest and never fed with grease-
History, the stupid woman, works up her hoary voice in tremulous tones, to narrate the
Epic tales of man from graying reason, men listen to her in all times-
The museum is filled and emptied; crowds pass in, and pass out through the halls, like moving winds
restless for an unbounded journey, for peaks unseen, unknown but dreamt of generation after generation by
the eyes of trees, animals, Men and molecules: while the drums of armies, governments, judicatures,
dictators and demagogues continue sounding their empty fanfares-
O each age hungers for a passion, each age invites the rule of stupid theory, willingly; subjects itself to its
sovereignty, while the intellect remains critical, watching and hatching the eggs of a new age-
Seshendra
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