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
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