The day is no more and the shade
is on the face of the earth with time to go
to the stream to fill my pitcher, for the evening
air is zealous with the sad music of the water.
It calls me into the dusk
with no passer-by in the lonely
lane winding through the twilight
and the ripples are rampant in the river.
I know not if I shall come back home
and I know not whom, by chance, I shall meet
but at the fording in a little boat
the unknown man plays his lute.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 74
Henry Victor 05.12.2012
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