Tiếng Anh

True in the prime, True in the beginning of ages,
True He is even now and True He verily, shall be, O Nanak!
By pondering on God, man cannot have a conception of Him, even though he may ponder over lacs of times.
Even though one be silent and remains absorbed in Lord's constant love he obtains not mind's silence.
The hunger of the hungry departs not, even though they may pile up loads of the world's valuables.
Man may possess thousands and lacs of wits, but not even one (goes with him) avails him in the Lord's court.
How can we be true and how can the screen of untruth be rent?
Nanak! By obeying, the pre-ordained order of the Lord's will.

There is but one God. True is His Name, creative His personality and immortal His form. He is without fear sans enmity, unborn and self-illumined. By the Guru's grace He is obtained.

Alone am I and alone I wish to be,
Alone my gentle friend has left me,
Alone am I, with neither master nor companion,
Alone am I, in bitterness and in pain,
Alone am I in tormented lamentation,
Alone am I much more than any wandering soul,
Alone am I and without a friend remain.

Alone am I at door or at the window,
Alone am I when huddled in the corner,
Alone am I and have shed my fill of tears,
Alone am I, whether mourning or consoled,
Alone am I,--and nothing suits me so--
Alone am I shut up inside my chamber,
Alone am I and without a friend remain.

Alone am I in every place and state,
Alone am I, where e'er I go or sit,
Alone am I much more than any earthly thing,
Alone am I, by one and all forsaken,
Alone am I and deeply down am sunk,
Alone am I and so often drowned in tears,
Alone am I and without a friend remain.

Prince, now is my pain begun.
Alone am I, as every grief afflicts me,
Alone am I, by darkness overtaken,
Alone am I and without a friend remain.

In former days

In former days we’d both agree
That you were me, and I was you.
What has now happened to us two.
That you are you, and I am me?

She who is always in my thoughts

She who is always in my thoughts prefers
Another man, and does not think of me.
Yet he seeks for another’s love, not hers;
And some poor girl is grieving for my sake.
Why then the devil take
Both her and him; and love; and her and me.

Sharing the Spoils

We are brothers in spirit, you and I
Cherishing the same ideals,
And I believe there's nothing in this world
We'll have to regret, you and I.

Posterity will judge -
Did we good or did we evil,
But for now - hand in hand -
Let's move forward, our steps more sure!

Suffering and poverty in foreign land
Were our life companions,
But we shared them like brothers
And we'll share them again, we two...

We'll share choruses of rebuke, you and I
And suffer the mockery of fools -
We'll suffer - but we'll not groan
Beneath human torment of any kind.

And we'll not bow our heads
To passions and profane idols:
Our two mournful lyres
Have already told what's in our hearts.

So forward now, with spirit and ideals
To the final sharing of the spoils:
To fulfill our sacred pledge -
Toward death brother, let's go toward death!

Spring Giddiness

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.

I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.
Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,
What a bargain, let's buy it.

Daylight, full of small dancing particles
and the one great turning, our souls
are dancing with you, without feet, they dance.
Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?

All day and night, music,
a quiet, bright
reedsong. If it
fades, we fade.

This Will Not Win Him

Reason says,
I will win him with my eloquence.

Love says,
I will win him with my silence.

Soul says,
How can I ever win him
When all I have is already his?

He does not want, he does not worry,
He does not seek a sublime state of euphoria -
How then can I win him
With sweet wine or gold? . . .

He is not bound by the senses -
How then can I win him
With all the riches of China?

He is an angel,
Though he appears in the form of a man.
Even angels cannot fly in his presence -
How then can I win him
By assuming a heavenly form?

He flies on the wings of God,
His food is pure light -
How then can I win him
With a loaf of baked bread?

He is neither a merchant, nor a tradesman -
How then can I win him
With a plan of great profit?

He is not blind, nor easily fooled -
How then can I win him
By lying in bed as if gravely ill?

I will go mad, pull out my hair,
Grind my face in the dirt -
How will this win him?

He sees everything -
how can I ever fool him?

He is not a seeker of fame,
A prince addicted to the praise of poets -
How then can I win him
With flowing rhymes and poetic verses?

The glory of his unseen form
Fills the whole universe
How then can I win him
With a mere promise of paradise?

I may cover the earth with roses,
I may fill the ocean with tears,
I may shake the heavens with praises -
none of this will win him.

There is only one way to win him,
this Beloved of mine -

Become his.

Where Everything Is Music

Don't worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn't matter.

We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.

The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the whole world's harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!

They derive
from a slow and powerful root
that we can't see.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.

“Cranes”

It sometimes seemed to me that the soldiers,
Who didn’t return from bloody fields,
Didn’t lie down into our ground
But turned into white cranes.
And they are flying and are screaming their voices to us now
And they do it from that old time.
May be it is the reason why we often stop talking ruefully
When we look in sky.

The weary wedge of cranes is flying in sky,
It flies in the end of the day.
And there is a small interval inside this wedge
May be, it is a place for me.
May be, it will be a day and I shall fly
With the flock of cranes in the same blue sky
And I shall call everyone, whose I left in a ground,
From the sky by on the language of birds.