Height Poem by Bidyarnab Das

On high mountains, trees do not grow, plants do not grow, nor grass grows.

Only snow accumulates,

Which is white like a shroud and cold as death. Taking the form of a playing, blossoming river, it cries drop by drop over its fate.

such height,

The height whose depth turns water to stone, the height of which fills one with inferiority complex, is worthy of greeting, is an invitation for climbers, flags can be hoisted on it, but no sparrow can make a nest there, nor can anyone get tired - Manda Batohi, one can only blink for a moment in its shadow.

The truth is that height alone is not enough, being isolated from everyone, separated from the environment, separated from loved ones, standing alone in the void, is not the greatness of the mountain, it is a helplessness.

There is a distance between heaven and hell in height and depth.

The higher one is, the lonelier one is; every burden is on one's own; with a smile on one's face, one cries in one's heart.

It is important that

There should be expansion along with height, so that man does not remain standing like a stump, mingles with others, takes someone along, walks with someone. Getting lost in the crowd, immersed in memories, forgetting oneself, gives meaning to existence, fragrance to life. The earth does not need dwarfs, it needs tall humans. So high that they touch the sky, sow the seeds of talent in new constellations, but not so high that there is no water under the feet, no thorn pricks, no bud blossoms.

There should be no spring, no autumn, there should be only the storm of height, only the silence of loneliness.

my Lord!

Don't ever let me get so high, that I can't hug strangers,

Never be so rude.