Barren Cloud

O my glorious sun!
Am I not a remnant cloud of autumn
roaming, uselessly, in the sky
without your touch to melt my vapour,

and to make me one with your light
instead of my counting months and years
separated from you
as if this is your wish and your play?

If it is, then take my fleeting barrenness
and paint me with colours, gilding with gold
and make me float on the nasty wind
that I may spread some varied wonders,

and when it is your wish to end this play
in the night, I shall melt to vanish in dark
or, I may smile as the white morning
in the coolness of a transparent purity.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 80

Henry Victor          17.10.2012