Pushpanjali, 21

Those who are good,
those who can love,
those who have a heart,
what happiness can they find in this world? 
None at all! None whatsoever!

They are like a stringed instrument,
like veena - every muscle, every nerve of theirs
is played upon by every strike of the world.
Everyone listens to their songs
and are enchanted hearing the same -
their wailing notes become a melody
but nobody sighs listening to the same.
Let it be so.
But when they can take the strike no more,
when the string shatters,
when it plays no more,
why does everyone criticise, find faults,
why none grieves for them?
Considering insignificant,
why does everyone discard them?

O God,
why don't you hide these instruments near you?
Why do you keep them in the shops of the world?
Call them to play music in the heaven.
Atheists, rascals and insensitive
clatter as they walk,
coolly shattering the strings, they laugh;
listening to the music from the heart
in a lighter, playful vein,
without remembering they go away.
They do not believe that this veena
is a favour of the Divine.
They believe they themselves are God!
Hence,
this melodious, delicate and virtuous instrument
is sometimes ridiculed,
and being considered useless,
is sometimes kicked upon hard,
stifling its music forever.