Death of Poetic Vanity

My song is plain without any adornments
and my tune needs no dress and decoration.
Pride of my ornaments ruins our union
as they would come between you and me.

Your whispers will drown
in the jingling of ornaments
and I know my poetic vanity dies
surely in shame before your sight.

O master poet, I have sat at your feet!
Let me make my life simple
and straight like a flute of reed
for you to fill with music.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 07

Henry Victor 07.01.2013

Your Footstool

Your footstool is where the poor, the humble

and the lost live, and there rest your feet;
my heart can never find its way to where
you keep company with the companionless.

I try to bow to you but my obeisance cannot

reach down to the depth where your feet rest
among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost
as pride can never enter the path you walk.

Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 10

Henry Victor          06.01.2013