U briew ba la pyn-buaid da ka kiad jong ka spah bad ka bor,
Ban lehkmen ia ki baroh ar, ha ka koit ka khiah, ba pynking stet
Ka jingiabeh ba pynlamwir jong u, tad haduh ba ka pyrthei u la pyrkhat,
La pynlong ka kper–jingsngewbha jong u, bad u briew,
Kum u wieh ba par, la pynlong ia u ban ioh ialehkai,
Tad haduh ki hajar ki jingthaba jong ka jingkmen, ba la pynkdang da ka jingsngewbha,
Kaba thap la ki thapniang sngi la bad miet ha khmat ki khmat jong u,
Da kaba iai pynkylla rong, bad ba la sdang pynjakhlia
Ka jing-iohi jong u, bad kaba pynthiang ia ka jingmut jong u, haduh ka jingbishni
Kum ka jingsan ka bor, ba lah saphriang kylleng ha dohnud jong u
Bad ka jingsngewbha ka la mut ha u ba ym don ei ei shuh ban ia ka jingsnai
Ba la knieh noh ia ka jingsngew, bad ha ka jingmut jong ka jingim
Ba pynkmen katta katta, shisien ba la niewkor, ka
dohpyut u briew ba la iap ha ki ksangkti jong u,
Kaba ha kaba shisha-shisha un kyntait, hynrei katba u pyrshang shi pyrshang
Ka la snoh rdin ha u, bad ka da kwah da la ka bor pyrkhat ba la khie bhang,
Ha ki hajar ki dur jong ka jingiap, hynrei kaba kynran kynsan shuwa ban shah pynshoh bieit,
Te wan ka jingsngewsih– bad ka Spah, ka Bor ka jah noh.
Bad la pynlong ia u ban shem ia kiba don jingiadei lem bad ki jaitbynriew baroh,
Ha ka jing-isih bad jingjaw-ummat, bad watla ki lok jong u ki rkhie,
Ki rymmiang shyntur jong u ki kren iaroh jam
— ‘Ko Jingkordit Bakhuid!’


Angels Unawares (II)

Swami Vivekananda

One drunk with wine of wealth and power
And health to enjoy them both, whirled on
His maddening course, till the earth, he thought,
Was made for him, his pleasure-garden, and man,
The crawling worm, was made to find him sport,
Till the thousand lights of joy, with pleasure fed,
That flickered day and night before his eyes,
With constant change of colours, began to blur
His sight, and cloy his senses; till selfishness,
Like a horny growth, had spread all o’er his heart;
And pleasure meant to him no more than pain,
Bereft of feeling; and life in the sense,
So joyful, precious once, a rotting corpse between his arms,
Which he forsooth would shun, but more he tried, the more
It clung to him; and wished, with frenzied brain,
A thousand forms of death, but quailed before the charm,
Then sorrow came — and Wealth and Power went —
And made him kinship find with all the human race
In groans and tears, and though his friends would laugh,
His lips would speak in grateful accents —
‘O Blessed Misery!’