“I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement. The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on”
~ Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across a hundred years.
~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener
You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door.
I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You came down and stood at my cottage door.
Masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. But the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive little strain mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you came down and stopped at my cottage door.
~ Rabindranath Tagore
Happy birthday to the poet who is my bard as much as Subramaniya Bharati and Tennyson and Pushkin and Rumi and Annamayya and Kabir and …
Bards belong to all the world like air, and sunlight, and springtime, and stars in the sky. They belong to all, and they are mine.