Sharper Sword

I thought I should ask for the garland of roses around
your neck but I was wary, hence, waited for the dawn
for you to depart to find few fragments on bed, searching
like a beggar for a stray petal, or two, in the morning.

But I find no flower, not even a petal, or any other sign
of your love left behind, no spices, and no jar of perfume
but it is your sharp sword from the sheath removed
flashing as a flame and heavy as a bolt of thunder.

The new light of morning probed through the window
and spread on your bed while the early bird twittered
and queried what gift I had received: was it a flower
or spices, or a jar of perfume, but why an awful sword?

I pause to muse with awe: what gift is this of yours
I cannot even hide, and as frail as I am, I am ashamed
also to wear for it hurts me if I pressed to my bosom
yet I shall bear in heart this honour, the token of pain.

From this moment I shall have no fear in this world
of many ties, and you will be victorious in  my striving
for you have left death as my companion and I crown
him with my life, cutting with this sword all my bonds.

Lord of my life from now onwards I leave all dolls
and petty cosmetics, with no more waiting and weeping
in corners, and I shall carry no more shyness, or niceness
but this sword you have given me as an adornment.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 52

Henry Victor          11.12.2012