In desperate search, but with hope
I go searching for eternity
in all the corners of my room
and I find her not.
My shack is small and that which leaves
this house is gone never to be regained
but infinite is your mansion, my Master
seeking eternity I have come to your door.
I stand under the golden canopy
of your evening sky
lifting my eyes to your face and see
I have come to the edge of eternity.
Nothing can vanish from this brink;
neither hope, nor happiness
nor the vision of a face
seen through my tears will ever shrink.
Oh Master, please dip my empty life
into that ocean, plunging it into its depth
and let me feel that lost touch
of the spirit of the universe.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 87
Henry Victor 01.11.2012
When my heart is hard and dry
come to me with a shower of mercy!
When grace is lost in my life
come to me with a burst of a song!
When wild work raises its clamour
on all my sides shutting me out
from the beyond, Lord of silence
come to me with your peace and rest!
When my beggarly heart sits crouched
shut up in a corner
oh my King, break open the door
and come with a royal ritual!
When desire blinds my mind
with delusion and dust
oh you the Holy One, you are ever wakeful;
therefore, come with your light and thunder!
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 39
Henry Victor 03.10.2012
I came out alone to meet you;
but another in the silent dark follows
me despite my move aside to avoid
his presence and I escape him not.
He is, my own little self, my ego
making dust rise from the earth
with his conceit, adding his loud voice
to every word that I utter.
My own little self, actually my lord
knows no shame; but I am ashamed
to come knocking on your door
to meet you in his company.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 30
Henry Victor 03.10.2012
When birds sing no more announcing
the day is done and the wind flagged
tired, then draw the cloak
of darkness thick on me
even as you wrapped the earth
with the coverlet of sleep
and tenderly closed at dusk
the petals of the drooping lotus.
When the traveler’s sack of provisions
is empty before the voyage ends
and his garment torn and dust-loaded
while his strength is exhausted
remove shame and poverty
renewing his life like a flower
under the cover of your kindly night
that he continues with the dawn of light.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 24
Henry Victor 01.10.2012
