Songs of Separation

The pangs of separation ever melt and flow

into songs through my poetic heart, a home
for sufferings and joy; this overspreading pain
seeps from that deepened loves and desires.

The songs of separation spread in the world

giving birth to innumerable shapes in the sky
gazing in silence all nights from star to star
becoming lyric in rustling leaves in darkness.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 84

Henry Victor          14.12.2012

 

Sharper Sword

I thought I should ask for the garland of roses around
your neck but I was wary, hence, waited for the dawn
for you to depart to find few fragments on bed, searching
like a beggar for a stray petal, or two, in the morning.

But I find no flower, not even a petal, or any other sign
of your love left behind, no spices, and no jar of perfume
but it is your sharp sword from the sheath removed
flashing as a flame and heavy as a bolt of thunder.

The new light of morning probed through the window
and spread on your bed while the early bird twittered
and queried what gift I had received: was it a flower
or spices, or a jar of perfume, but why an awful sword?

I pause to muse with awe: what gift is this of yours
I cannot even hide, and as frail as I am, I am ashamed
also to wear for it hurts me if I pressed to my bosom
yet I shall bear in heart this honour, the token of pain.

From this moment I shall have no fear in this world
of many ties, and you will be victorious in  my striving
for you have left death as my companion and I crown
him with my life, cutting with this sword all my bonds.

Lord of my life from now onwards I leave all dolls
and petty cosmetics, with no more waiting and weeping
in corners, and I shall carry no more shyness, or niceness
but this sword you have given me as an adornment.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 52

Henry Victor          11.12.2012