The Poet’s Age by Tagore translated by Ranu

December 31, 2012

Rabindranath Tagore (Photo credit: Cea.)

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.