another beauty from the same piece:

You're inconsistent, Lord,
I say with all due respect:
You created the merriest poet
But left his sense of humor wrecked.
Pain has suppressed my cheerful trope
And left me in the lurch;
If the maudlin game doesn't come to an end
I'll join the Catholic Church.

From Spenglers's regular at Asia Times online, a translation of this beautiful poem by Heinrich Heine, the 19th century German Jewish poet:

Skip the learned exegesis
Skip the reverential blessing,
Solve the damned conundrum for us
Just this once without digressing:

Why the righteous bear a cross
Along their road of woe, and bleed,
While the scoundrel trots victorious,
Happy on his lofty steed?

Who's to blame for this?
Might God's Omnipotence be less than full?
Or does He play these pranks on purpose?
Oh, that would be contemptible!

Every day we ask until
The question wears us out like cancer.
Then a shovelful of dirt stops up our
Muzzles - but is that an answer?

The Milkmaid's rapture

But why should I worry if Akrura took Him physically away?
When did my Kanha ever live in the world out there?
How can Sunrise affect the moonlit scenery in the heart?

Here in heart's chamber flows timeless, the music of His flute
Wafting through midnight's breeze fresh by Jamuna's touch
How can even a drought affect this eternal inner spring?

O this dark youth, swathed in yellow robes, adorned of
wild flowers and the peacock feather on his crown, has
enraptured the heart; what is time and where the world?

The Milkmaid's song

The whiz of husking, chatter of womenfolk,
and the whish of churning have stopped
Nanda's village has gone calm, its twilight:
Awaiting the return of men who left early;

It is so many years now since Akrura
summoned our beloved cowherd away
but still, this evening, my heart stops
as I hear this nearing clatter: of hooves,
stray moos, and desultory voices of men

Maybe, suddenly, out of that raised dust
He will appear, the dark one, like on that
distant day, He loomed sublime, dancing,
of swarthy Jamuna, on the serpent's head

The lamp of hope

I have lit the evening lamp in this
my small hut; It is really the lamp
of hope: this dusk like on so many
past ones, I sit still by the window
looking, into the courtyard, will my
Kanha, black like a monsoon cloud
appear out of the darkness today?

I have swept the dust out of this
my small hut, really, the dust of
distractions, today like on so many
past days; the evening breezes in
as I look anxiously outside: will my
Kanha, black like moonless nights
appear out of darkness today?

I have adorned the insides of this
my small hut, with flowers of best
fragrance: this day like on so many
past ones, I plucked'em finest, from
love's labour, in the garden of life;
I long for my Kanha, when will he
come drive this unreal light away?

another way os saying the same thing I was saying in the post below:

...

I have shut the world out of my room;
But looking at moonbeams trickling in,
I wish these delightful ones could
somehow come alive and give company

I have locked my lips from talking;
But I wish, this winter breeze could beat
with the sorrow of my heartbeats and
carry it away into that glowing distance

I wish I could be just my shadow-
Even if I wept with my muscles flexed
All that people could see would be
that strength in the silhouette

I cant even cast my present off,
move on: I'm addicted to this sad song
played out by the winds of time blowing
through this hollow reed of my life

To want and to deserve are things
quite apart: the waves of the oceans
all desire the blue sky above but
perish, in this very attempt to soar high.