777. Untitled, by Bhavabhuti

Critics scoff
at my work
and declare their contempt—
no doubt they've got
their own little wisdom.
I write nothing for them.
But because time is
endless and our planet
vast, I write these
poems for a person
who will one day be born
with my sort of heart.

(trans Andrew Schelling)

Source: Dropping the Bow: Poems of Ancient India