Chapter 126அதிகாரம் 126 பிரிவு Separation

Pull up a planted stake and the earth it stood in heaves: the sorrow of a love that has grown.

Beneath the sand, the water of a well has sunk out of sight; within those who embrace above, there is parting.

From above, the well looks as it always did; its water has drawn away beneath the sand.

The bed bears a hollow on either side; the whole measure of separation lies in the empty one.

The days together melt away like sugar; the days apart are counted in stone.

He went, and even the dust of the street is gone; she stayed, by herself, alone.

A staff stands just as it stood, yet its shadow lengthens; the day stands just as still, and separation lengthens.

I believed he had mingled within me; now he is gone, and within me a sickness keeps asking, ‘Who, or what, is in me?’

The sickness is lovesickness. Where he seemed to dwell, it now asks what, if anything, is there.

A stone does not know the wetness of a water pot set down on it; when the pot is lifted, the stone knows.

Clay worked together, they say, cannot be pulled apart; once the heart has dried, the crack shows.

Even when the parted come together again, the ash from the day their parting burned rises and clings to them.