Ocean of Forms I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. And now I am eager to die into the deathless. Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life. I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. The Chanpa Flower Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother? You would call, Baby, where are you? and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet. I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it cane from me. When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading ramayana, and the trees shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading. But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child? When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story. Where have you been, you naughty child? I wont tell you, mother. Thats what you and I would say then. The Child-Angel They clamour and fight, they doubt and despair, they know no end to their wrangling. Let your life come amongst them like a flame of light, my child, unflickering and pure, and delight them into silence. They are cruel in their greed and their envy, their words are like hidden knives thirsting for blood. Go and stand amidst their scowling hearts, my child, and let your gentle eyes fall upon them like the forgiving peace of the evening over the strife of the day. Let them see your face, my child, and thus know the meaning of all things; let them love you and thus love each other. Come and take your seat in the bosom of the limitless, my child. At sunrise open and raise your heart like a blossoming flower, and at sunset bend your head and in silence complete the worship of the day. Rabindranath Tagore
Posted on: Sat, 30 Nov 2013 21:52:40 +0000
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