METHINKS, my love, before the day- break of life you stood under some waterfall of happy dreams, filling your blood with its liquid turbulence. Or, perhaps, your path was through the garden of the gods, where the merry multitude of jasmine, lilies, and oleanders fell into your arms in heaps, and entering your heart became boisterous.
Your laughter is a song whose words are drowned in the clamour of tunes, a rapture of the odour of flowers unseen ; it is like the moonlight break- ing through the window of your lips when the moon is hiding in your heart. I ask for no reason, I forget the cause, I only know that your laughter is the tumult of insurgent life.
MANY a time when the spring day knocked at our door I kept busy with my work and you did not answer. Now when I am left alone and heart- sick the spring day comes once again, but I know not how to turn him away from the door. When he came to crown us with joy the gate was shut, but now when he comes with his gift of sorrow his path must be open.
THE boisterous spring, who once came into my life with its lavish laughter, burdening her hours with improvident roses, setting skies aflame with the red kisses of new-born ashoka leaves, now comes stealing into my solitude through the lonely lanes along the brooding shadows heavy with silence, and sits still in my balcony gazing across the fields, where the green of the earth swoons exhausted in the utter paleness of the sky.
WHEN our farewell moment came, like a low-hanging rain-cloud, I had only time to tie a red ribbon on your wrist, while my hands trembled. To- day I sit alone on the grass in the season of mahua flowers, with one quivering question in my mind, ” Do you still keep the little red ribbon tied on your wrist ? You went by the narrow road that skirted the blossoming field of flax. I saw that my garland of overnight was still hanging loose from your hair. But why did you not wait till I could gather, in the morning, new flowers for my final gift ? I wonder if unawares it dropped on your way, the garland hanging loose from your hair.Many a song I had sung to you, morning and evening, and the last one you carried in your voice when you went away. You never tarried to hear the one song unsung I had
for you alone and for ever. I wonder if, at last, you are tired of my song that you hummed to yourself while walking through the field.
LAST night clouds were threatening, and amlak branches struggled in the grips of the gusty wind. I hoped, if dreams came to me, they would come in the shape of my beloved, in the lonely night loud with rain.
The winds still moan through the fields, and the tear-stained cheeks of dawn are pale. My dreams have been in vain, for truth is hard, and dreams, too, have their own ways.
Last night when the darkness was drunken with storm, and the rain, like night’s veil, was torn by the winds into shreds, would it make truth jealous if untruth came to me in the shape of my beloved, in the starless night loud with rain ?
MY fetters, you made music in my heart. I played with you all day long and made you my ornament. We were the best of friends, my fetters. There were times when I was afraid of you, but my fear made me love you the more. You were companions of my long dark night, and I make my bow to you, before I bid you good-bye, my fetters.
You had your rudder broken many a time, my boat, and your sails torn to tatters. Often had you drifted towards the sea, dragging anchor, and heeded not. But now there has spread a crack in your hull and your hold is heavy. Now is the time for you to end your voyage, to be rocked into sleep by the lapping of the water by the beach.
Alas, I know all warning is vain.
The veiled face of dark doom lures you. The madness of the storm and the waves is upon you. The music of the tide is rising high.
You are shaken by the fever of that dance.
Then break your chain, my boat, and be free, and fearlessly rush to your wreck.
THE current in which I drifted ran rapid and strong when I was young.
The spring breeze was spendthrift of itself, the trees were on fire with flowers ; and the birds never slept from singing.
I sailed with giddy speed, carried away by the flood of passion ; I had no time to see and feel and take the world into my being.
Now that youth has ebbed and I am stranded on the bank, I can hear the deep music of all things, and the sky opens to me its heart of stars.
THERE is a looker-on who sits behind my eyes. It seems he has seen things in ages and worlds beyond memory’s shore, and those forgotten sights glisten on the grass and shiver on the leaves. He has seen under new veils the face of the one beloved, in twilight hours of many a nameless star. Therefore his sky seems to ache with the pain of countless meetings and partings, and a longing pervades this spring breeze, the longing that is full of the whisper of ages without beginning.
A MESSAGE came from my youth of vanished days, saying, ” I wait for you among the quiverings of unborn May, where smiles ripen for tears and hours ache with songs unsung.”
It says, ” Come to me across the worn-out track of age, through the gates of death. For dreams fade, hopes fail, the gathered fruits of the year decay, but I am the eternal truth, and you shall meet me again and again in your voyage of life from shore to shore.”