The day when I was not ready for you, Oh my King
you entered my cave, my heart, uninvited and unknown
as one in the common crowd, pressing the ring
of eternity on countless fleeting moments of my life.
Today when by chance I reflect on those minutes
and see your indelible signature laying scattered
in the cosmic dust mixed with the misty memory
of joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten.
But you never turn away from my childish play
with dust and mist, or disregard me for my lack of a track,
and I know the foot-steps that I hear in my playroom
are the same as those echoing from one star to another.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 43
Henry Victor 02.11.2012
