Shadow-Wandering

What I have longed to say
remains unspoken in this life;
it is only this—
before the eternal eyes of the world
what I have seen a thousand times
at my own door.

This eternal familiarity with the unfamiliar
has so easily filled the deep heart each day,
yet to speak of it, such simple words
I still do not know, alas!

The song of empty fields plays in that solitary banyan shade,
on this sloping bank of the river
the farmer has tilled his field;
sandpipers fly on
to the deserted sandy shore across.

Does it flow or does it not,
this thin river in weary current,
like half-awake eyes struck by moments?
I see that path winding,
traced with footprints of hundreds of past years,
running along the field's edge, as if companion to the crops,
flowing in kinship with the river's cottages.

This village filled with Phagun's fire-light,
that empty field, that ferry ghat,
that blue river-line, in the lap of distant sands,
where by quiet waters the cuckoos call and play,
where the fair sits—all these scenes
a helpless poet has watched for so long.

Just this gazing, this walking down the path,
this light, this breeze,
this constant humming of indistinct sounds,
from drifting clouds
suddenly into this river-current
the silent movement of shadows.

This endless conflict with you
I can bear no more—
day by day it builds,
causeless, what debt it is!
Everyone came to you, in assembly's garb,
and offered reverence,
while I wander hidden in soiled dress—
no honor left!

What can I tell of heart's anguish,
this mind has long been mute,
it speaks no words to you
anymore.
Do not turn him away this time,
or else take him to humiliation's shore,
make him forever purchased
at your feet.

In that joy-sorrow, endlessly,
this life has grown distant again and again—
the heart seeks today some small expression of that.