(Rendered from his Telugu poem)
I walk up and down the stone-ridden street
And meet mute strangers in cement concrete
Marching in melancholy;
But when I smile and make some knowing noise
They stare and seem to listen to the voice
Of the ghost of somebody.
I stand beneath the flowery balcony
Hearing the painted angels’ rhapsody
Struck on silver strings idly;
And in the night my inspired voice I raise
Only to find I sing though none may praise
The throttled song of somebody.
I watched all sorts of odd machinery–
Their oily rhythm, their greasy beauty,
In a smoke-raining city;
Full of dutiful wrath I marched me home
And found I wove my own cloth on the loom
Set surely by somebody.
I’ve read Dramas, Stories and History
Novels of pathos, Poems of piety–
And classic sublimity;
And I’ve tried to avoid all that is stale.
But found I have written the hungry tale
Told by somebody.
With sad envy I watch the kingly crown,
And the beloved maiden’s angry frown
Of outraged chastity:
Still purer loves I ne’er can hope to seek
As my hungry lips have prest on the cheek
Of the love of somebody.
Oh Alas! Evolution, Force of Life!
Thou hast known primeval struggle and strife
Of man's first captivity:
Can’t thou not leave me all alone on earth
To die the dear unmechanised death
Of somebody?