Your sunbeams come to my world
with arms outstretched and stand
at my door to carry to your feet cloud
made of my tears, sighs and songs.
That mantle of misty cloud you wrap
around your bright frame with fond delight
turning that into infinite shapes and folds
colouring it with ever-changing shades.
It is so light and fleeting, tender and tearful
and dark covering your spotless white light
with its pathetic shadows, yet you love it
for what it is, oh you spotless and serene.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 68
Henry Victor 29.12.2012
Your wristlet is indeed beautiful
ornamented with sparkling stars
artfully fashioned with flashy jewels
of multiple colours, more than I can name.
But more beautiful is your sword, the pain
with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings
of Garuda, the vehicular bird of Vishnu, perfectly
poised, and angry, like the red light of sunset.
The sword shivers like the last moment of life
with an ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death,
shining like the pure flame of being burning
in an earthly sense with one fierce flash.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 53
Henry Victor 11.12.2012
