Every day, the sun; and, after sunset, night and her stars. Ever the winds blow; ever the grass grows. Every day, men and women, conversing, beholding and beholden. The scholar is he of all men whom this spectacle most engages. He must settle its value in his mind. What is nature to him?
But everybody is afraid of death; that too is contagious. Your parents are afraid of death, your neighbors are afraid of death. Small children start getting infected by this constant fear all around. Everybody is afraid of death. People don't even want to talk about death.
I understood that you would take the Human Race in the concrete, have exploded the absurd notion of Pope's Essay on Man, [Erasmus] Darwin, and all the countless Believers-even (strange to say) among Xtians-of Man's having progressed from an Ouran Outang state-so contrary to all History, to all Religion, nay, to all Possibility-to have affirmed a Fall in some sense.
“Abba G Muje Marty Thy To Ammi Bacha Leti Thein 1Din Mei ne Socha K Agr Ami Pittai Krengi To Abba G Kia Krenge?
Ye Dekhne K Ly Mei ne Ami Ka Kaha Na Mana, Unho Ne Kaha Bazar Se Dahi La 2, Me Na Laya, Unho Ne Salan Kam Dia Mei ne Zyda Pe Israr Kia, Unho Ne Kaha Peerhi pe Beth K Roti Khao Me Zameen Pe Beth Gya,
Kapry Maily Ker Leay, Mera Lehja B Ghustakhana Tha Muje Pori Twaqqa Thi K Ammi Zarur Maren Gi, Mgr Unho Ne Muje Seeny Sy Laga Kr Kaha
“Q Putar! Maa Sadqay Bemar To Nhi.”
Something like fear chilled me as I sat there in the small hours alone-I say alone, for one who sits by a sleeper is indeed alone; perhaps more alone than he can realise.
Kisi Dhadakte Hue Dil Ke
Pichhe Zaroor Baat Hoti Hai,
Kisi Udaas Chehre Ke
Pichhe Kisi Ki Yaad Hoti Hai,
Aap Ko Pata Ho Na Ho Aap
Ki Khushi Ke Pichhe,
Hamari Dua Hoti Hai.
There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.