gitanjali

if it is not my portion to meet thee in this my life
then let me ever feel that i have missed thy sight
let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs
of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours

as my days pass in the crowded market of this world
and my hands grow full with the daily profits
let me ever feel that i have gained nothing
let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs
of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours

when i sit by the roadside, tired and panting
when i spread my bed low in the dust
let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me
let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs
of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours

when my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound
and the laughter there is loud
let me ever feel that i have not invited thee to my house
let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs
of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours

 

– Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali, 79.

Our sorrows are precious, our fears are meaningful. Our anger holds value. If only we see it as arising from the ground of our being, from that which is, alone. If we don’t make them petty, by associating them with our little selves, with people in our lives, with our small projects, our needs and desires.

In his years of solitude in rural Bengal, Tagore sat by the riverside, in the blazing sun, in the warm light of sunset, in the stillness of the night and in the quiet beginnings of dawn. And he realised all this.

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~ by tdcatss on July 16, 2016.

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