Bid me and I shall gather my fruits to bring them in full baskets
into your courtyard, though some are lost and some not ripe.
For the season grows heavy with its fulness, and there is a
plaintive shepherd''s pipe in the shade.
Bid me and I shall set sail on the river.
The March wind is fretful, fretting the languid waves into
murmurs.
The garden has yielded its all, and in the weary hour of evening
the call comes from your house on the shore in the sunset.
My life when young was like a flower—a flower that loosens a
petal or two from her abundance and never feels the loss when the
spring breeze comes to beg at her door.
Now at the end of youth my life is like a fruit, having nothing
to spare, and waiting to offer herself completely with her full
burden of sweetness.
Is summer''s festival only for fresh blossoms and not also for
withered leaves and faded flowers?
Is the song of the sea in tune only with the rising waves?
Does it not also sing with the waves that fall?
Jewels are woven into the carpet where stands my king, but there
are patient clods waiting to be touched by his feet.
Few are the wise and the great who sit by my Master, but he has
taken the foolish in his arms and made me his servant for
ever.
I woke and found his letter with the morning.
I do not know what it says, for I cannot read.
I shall leave the wise man alone with his books, I shall not
trouble him, for who knows if he can read what the letter
says.
Let me hold it to my forehead and press it to my heart.
When the night grows still and stars come out one by one I will
spread it on my lap and stay silent.
The rustling leaves will read it aloud to me, the rushing stream
will chant it, and the seven wise stars will sing it to me from the
sky.
I cannot find what I seek, I cannot understand what I would
learn; but this unread letter has lightened my burdens and turned
my thoughts into songs.
A handful of dust could hide your signal when I did not know its
meaning.
Now that I am wiser I read it in all that hid it before.
It is painted in petals of flowers; waves flash it from their
foam; hills hold it high on their summits.
I had my face turned from you, therefore I read the letters awry
and knew not their meaning.
Where roads are made I lose my way.
In the wide water, in the blue sky there is no line of a
track.
The pathway is hidden by the birds'' wings, by the star-fires, by
the flowers of the wayfaring seasons.
And I ask my heart if its blood carries the wisdom of the unseen
way.
Alas, I cannot stay in the house, and home has become no home to
me, for the eternal Stranger calls, he is going along the
road.
The sound of his footfall knocks at my breast; it pains me!
The wind is up, the sea is moaning.
I leave all my cares and doubts to follow the homeless tide, for
the Stranger calls me, he is going along the road.
When I lingered among my hoarded treasure I felt like a worm that
feeds in the dark upon the fruit where it was born.
I leave this prison of decay.
I care not to haunt the mouldy stillness, for I go in search of
everlasting youth; I throw away all that is not one with my life
nor as light as my laughter.
I run through time and, O my heart, in your chariot dances the
poet who sings while he wanders.
You took my hand and drew me to your side, made me sit on the
high seat before all men, till I became timid, unable to stir and
walk my own way; doubting and debating at every step lest I should
tread upon any thorn of their disfavour.
I am freed at last!
The blow has come, the drum of insult sounded, my seat is laid
low in the dust.
My paths are open before me.
My wings are full of the desire of the sky.
I go to join the shooting stars of midnight, to plunge into the
profound shadow.
I am like the storm-driven cloud of summer that, having cast off
its crown of gold, hangs as a sword the thunderbolt upon a chain of
lightning.
In desperate joy I run upon the dusty path of the despised; I
draw near to your final welcome.
The child finds its mother when it leaves her womb.
When I am parted from you, thrown out from your household, I am
free to see your face.
It decks me only to mock me, this jewelled chain of mine.
It bruises me when on my neck, it strangles me when I struggle to
tear it off.
It grips my throat, it chokes my singing.
Could I but offer it to your hand, my Lord, I would be
saved.
Take it from me, and in exchange bind me to you with a garland,
for I am ashamed to stand before you with this jewelled chain on my
neck.
Far below flowed the Jumna, swift and clear, above frowned the
jutting bank.
Hills dark with the woods and scarred with the torrents were
gathered around.
Govinda, the great Sikh teacher, sat on the rock reading
scriptures, when Raghunath, his disciple, proud of his wealth, came
and bowed to him and said, “I have brought my poor present unworthy
of your acceptance.”
Thus saying he displayed before the teacher a pair of gold
bangles wrought with costly stones.
The master took up one of them, twirling it round his finger, and
the diamonds darted shafts of light.
Suddenly it slipped from his hand and rolled down the bank into
the water.
“Alas,”screamed Raghunath, and jumped into the stream.
The teacher set his eyes upon his book, and the water held and
hid what it stole and went its way.
The daylight faded when Raghunath came back to the teacher tired
and dripping.
He panted and said, “I can still get it back if you show me where
it fell.”
The teacher took up the remaining bangle and throwing it into the
water said, “It is there.”
To move is to meet you every moment,
Fellow-traveller!
It is to sing to the falling of your feet.
He whom your breath touches does not glide by the shelter of the
bank.
He spreads a reckless sail to the wind and rides the turbulent
water.
He who throws his doors open and steps onward receives your
greeting.
He does not stay to count his gain or to mourn his loss; his
heart beats the drum for his march, for that is to march with you
every step,
Fellow-traveller!
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