Parched By Pain

My heart is scorched, parched by pain

of many days; for your grace, the rain
is held back from this horizon fiercely naked
not even with the thinnest cover of a soft cloud.

I see not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower;

so please, if it is your will and your wish,
send your angry storm, dark with death and lashes
of lightning, startling thoroughly the sky of my soul.

But call back this pervading silent heat, stagnant

and zealously cruel, burning my heart with dire despair
as on the day of my father’s wrath; so let the cloud
of grace bend low like the tearful look of my mother.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 40

Henry Victor          01.01.2013

For My New Journey

At this moment of my parting from you

wish me good luck, my friends, for the sky
is glowing with a new dawn, inviting me
to my path that recoils so beautifully.

Ask not what I have with me to take there

for I start on my journey with empty hands
but an expectant heart, putting on also my wedding
garland without the red-brown dress of the traveller.

Though there are dangers on my way I still have no fear

in heart, for the evening star, also, will soon come out
and when my trip is done the lamenting tune, the refrain
of the dusk, too will be removed at the heaven’s door.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 94

Henry Victor          27.11.2012

Release from the Rat Race

Bird songs rippled the morning sea of silence
and the flowers were merry by the roadside
with wealth of golden rays scattered through the rift
of clouds as we, unaware of these, raced on our way.

Singing no glad songs, nor playing, or smiling
or speaking, or bartering in the village
never lingering on our way, we quickened
increasing speed as limbs of the clock sped by.

The sun moved to the mid sky and in the shade doves cooed
as withered leaves danced, whirled in the hot air of the noon
and the shepherd boy drowsed, dreamed under the banyan
tree as I rested my tired limbs on the grass beside the water.

My companions with scorn laughed at me holding their heads
high as they hurried on never looking back nor resting
vanishing in the distant blue haze crossing meadows and hills
passing through strange and far-away countries.

All honour to you, the heroic host of the ceaseless path!
As I greeted scorn and guilt pricked me to rise, and I found
no response in soul giving myself up for the lost,
a glad humiliation in the shadow of a dim delight.

The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom
slowly spread over my heart and I forgot the purpose
for, and the goal of my travel, surrendering my mind
without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.

At last when I woke from my slumber, opened my eyes
I saw you standing by me, flooding my sleep with your smile!
Oh, how I had feared that the path was long and so tiresome
and the struggle to reach you was hard!

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 48

Henry Victor          04.11.2012

Gift for Grace

An inclination for virtuous living, joy, wealth
including fame, with the final home come
from you, my ultimate mother and father
with the power to give, or withhold these gifts.

But my tears are mine, and mine alone that I bring
to you as my gift, a chain of pearls for your neck,
to hang on  your chest as the stars have placed anklets  
of light to your feet, and you reward me with your grace.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 83

Henry Victor          24.10.2012

Time to Graze the Grace

When a day is spent on lazing, normally
I grieve over lost time knowing not
with you nothing is ever lost but your hands
take them into your bosom to hide.

Hidden in your heart with other stuff
you nourish those seeds into sprouts
later to flourish into buds and blossoms
and evolving flowers into fruits.

All this happens as I lay my tired limbs
sleeping on my idle bed imagining my work
now is ceased, but only to wake in the morning
to find my garden filled with magical flowers.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 81

Henry Victor          17.10.2012