Your sunbeams come to my world
with arms outstretched and stand
at my door to carry to your feet cloud
made of my tears, sighs and songs.
That mantle of misty cloud you wrap
around your bright frame with fond delight
turning that into infinite shapes and folds
colouring it with ever-changing shades.
It is so light and fleeting, tender and tearful
and dark covering your spotless white light
with its pathetic shadows, yet you love it
for what it is, oh you spotless and serene.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 68
Henry Victor 29.12.2012
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