The eyes raised from the blade
Probled me for a moment
And then
As if in a trusting voice
He said smiling -
Babujee! To tell you the truth - in my eyes
Nobody is small
Nor anyone big
For me, everyman is a pair of shoes
standing in front of me
To be repaired

And the truth is
That whoever
However, where ever
He is these days
Nobody is beyond
The size of the shoe
But still I remember
Somewhere between the professional hands and the torn shoe

There is an individual
Who receives the stitches
Who bears on his heart
The hammer-like blows
Of the toe peeping from the shoe.

Different kinds of shoe come here
And establish
Distinct identities of individuals
Each has its own shape
And its own style
For instance here is one:
You call it a shoe -
It is just a bag of patches
A face picked by small - pox
Wears it
There is on it a smile that betrays hope
Like a fluttering kite
Caught on a telephone pole.
"Babujee'! Why waste money.
On this? I want to say
But my voice is unsteady
I realise - a voice
Comes from within – “What kind of a man you are,
Spitting on your kind.”
Believe me, at that time
I tack on eyes in place of patches.
And with great difficulty accommodate
The man caught in his profession
Here is another pair of shoes
which having adorned his foot
A man goes forth for a stroll.
He is neither intelligent.
Nor tied down by time
There is greed in his eyes
Watch on his wrist
He doesn't have to go anywhere
But there is great haste
Reflected in his face.
He is a grocer
Or some kind of a merchant
But his swagger is such
As if he were Hitler's grandson.
'Tie this, cut that, hammer here, thrash there
Rub it, polish it, shine this shoe like a mirror,
...Oof! its too warm' he fans himself.
With his handkerchief, laments the climate
He stares like an ape
At girls coming and going in the street.
In short, he makes you slog for an hour
But when it is time to shell out money
He clearly shies away.
'You swindle the gentle folk' he roars and throwing some coins
Pushes off
Suddenly with a wincing movement
He hops onto the pavement from the street.

When a blow falls on the profession
A hidden nail remains buried somewhere
Which at any opportunity props out
And pierces the toe.

But this does not mean
That I have any illusions
I am always aware that
Somewhere between the shoes
and the profession
There is an individual
Who receives the stitches
Who bears on his heart
The hammer-like blows
Of the toe peeping from the shoe.
And Babujee! the truth is that if there is
No real meaning
In staying alive
Then, between earning a livelihood
By selling religion
and being a pimp
There is no difference
and this is the place where each man
Set free from his profession
Becomes a vibrating part of the crowd.
Words slash
And the climate bothers him
As they do everyone else
Take this springtime for instance
It stretches the day like a loom
Hangs thousands of red leaves
On the tree
To dry in the sun.

Honestly speaking - at that time
It becomes difficult
To control the grip on the blade
The eyes look somewhere
The hand wanders somewhere else
The mind like a cranky child
Refuses constantly to return to work
It seems that beneath the innocent skin
There is a jingle
That assaults man with trees
And this is matter for consideration, not of alarm
but one who measures life by books
Who between reality and experience
Is a coward in a moment of the blood's weakness
Can very easily say
Buddy! You are not a cobbler, but a poet
Actually he is the victim
Of an interesting illusion
Who thinks that profession is a breed
And a breed, not man
Has a monopoly over language
Whereas the fact is that fire
Burns everyone
Truth passes through everyone
There are some who have found words.
And some blind to letters
They suffer each injustice silently
And are afraid of the burning in the stomach
While I know that 'a cry bursting with denials'
And 'a sensible silence'
Both mean the same
In shaping the future, 'Silence' and 'Cry'
Each carries out its task
In its own context in like manner.