The Poet’s age by Tagore
Evening is almost here ,oh my dear poet,
I can see white streaks in your hair___
you are sitting and looking up in the sky
makes me wonder, are you hearing the call from the next world?
I know it’s evening, said the poet,
my exhausted body still desires to know
if perchance from the other village
someone needs my help.
If there under the fragrant trees
some young man and young woman fall in love
they might need some help
perhaps would like some enchanting music_
who is going to read their mind,
and play the music in his flute,
if I sit on this earth ,
and count my days left to go to the other world.
The evening star rose and set,
the funeral pyre is about to extinguish along the river,
the yellow moon from lord Krishna
is showing itself from one side of the forest,
the foxes are making loud noise
from the courtyard of the burnt house__
at this time if some homeless man
comes here to spend the night,
with folded hands he looks up
and sees a saint,
slowly his heart will ache
who will awaken his mind with the secret words of the universe
if I free myself and make plans,
In a corner of my house?
Yes I have streaks of white hair,
why does it matter?
Know that I am as old as the men and boys of the neighbourhood.
Some have innocent smiling faces, others look crooked,
tears come down from some of their eyes
others have tears dried in their mind
some spend time in the corner of the house
others are showing off in fancy chariots
some die alone while grieving
others lose their way in a crowd__
I am getting a call from everyone,
I don’t have time to hear the call from the next world.
I am just as old as the others
even if my hair is turning white.