Heinrich Heine held, according to Karl Popper, that all men of action are nothing but unconscious instruments of the men of thought. Thus, Robespierre was merely the hand of Rousseau. (H. Heine, as quoted in Poppers The Open Society and its Enemies) But we know that the thought only reflects and records the human condition, i.e. the humanised nature or the nature modified by labour. So Rousseau could equally be a creation of Robespierre. Agar naseem-e-saba zulf-e-oo be-afshanad, Hazaar jaan muqqaiyad zay band be-afshanad. (Khusro) Indeed, the dialectic of action is often seen by us as pertaining to the immediate ripple created by it, instead of being integral to the totality of action and reaction. But even after recognising the relationships said to be described by Heine, it is hard to believe that the great lyrical poet, who wrote: All the luscious cup is drained, That was filled with sensuous juices, Foaming to the brim, enticing, All the luscious cup is drained, could question the rich nature of man. However he, who is not only one of the greatest German poets, but also a source of pride for the entire mankind, is still not sure of his own place in the world, perhaps even in the German literature. He writes: I am a German poet, Of goodly German fame, When their best names are spoken, Mine own they are sure to name. His name will, of course, be there. Who can omit it? But it will be a name without a nationality, without identification. The main question here is not just the turmoil inside the poet that creates great poetry. The problem is the culture to which he speaks. By the time of Heine, capitalism was fast penetrating Germany, while France, where he spent his last days, was the creation of the Great Bourgeois Revolution. Even so, he referred to himself, as a sick old Jew. The reason was the prevalent anti-semitism. Europe, while making a great, decisive leap forward, yet carried this disease within itself. It still does, as the human thinking often lags far behind its technological progress. Even so, the expression of human feelings has a way of penetrating the walls of prejudice, of hate, to spread far. Rasul Gamzatov, the Daghestani poet, whose language is spoken by less than half a million people, relates that when he took the manuscript of the collection of his love poems to a publisher, the latter asked him how many people spoke that language. When told, only half a million, he replied it was not worth printing. But then he carried the manuscript home to read the poems to his wife. Still Gamzatovs works are printed and widely appreciated. He explains: Yet, for thousands of years, lovers have been writing, publishing and singing songs, which millions have eagerly read, heard and sung themselves, because the sublime feeling of love touches every heart.Herein lies genuine mutual enrichment and influence. What a pity, poetry cannot be translated. Well, its text can be, precisely and faithfully. But what goes across is the mechanics of the language, not the feeling. Where we fail is that the expression transposed to another language leaves behind all the traditions attached to it, all the memories that it contains, and all the unspoken meanings that are conveyed only in spoken words. They are unable to cross the chasm. As a result, the words arrive in the new language naked, in fact dumb. I have tried many times to translate Momins tum hamein bhool gaye ho sahab, hum tumhein yaad kia kartay hein for my foreign friends (e.g. Tu mas oublie, mais je pense souvent a toi), but have met with only polite smiles. Well, how about Gamzatov? Through virgin snow you strode beside me. Where are your tracks? I do not know. I walk alone. Thought flutters wildly. But leaves no foot-prints in snow. Or, the lines in memory of his friend of youth, now gone somewhere: Palest moonlight I recall, And the streets below, Where we argued life and love, All so long ago. This business of the arrow time is all wrong. The ancients were perhaps right. The time should be circular, if it is not. n The writer is a retired Ambassador.