You made me, this breakable bowl
with endless potentials which is your principle
pleasure, and you constantly empty
ever to fill with lively fresh life.
This little flute you carry in your hand
over hills and vales carries your constant breath,
your multiple melodies, making my little heart
lose its limits giving birth, in joy, to ineffable chants.
Your infinite gifts continuously come to me
on these tiny and feeble hands of mine
where for aeons you have poured on them
your blessings and still, for more, there is room.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 01
Henry Victor 09.09.2012
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