The song has contrived to sing beyond
a vessel of shard, of color made to form,
to reveal the brunt of a hundred years, the
lesson of foul unlearned, the grist of many
thousands unlived; yes the scent reaches
me as sure as it dissolves, reveres, speaks.
Yesterday, I picked up and skimmed Tagore once more and came across the poem below from “The Gardener”. This morning I checked the date of publication, and it is 1915! An acknowledgement was due, and so I darted off the short poem above.
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds. Open your doors and look abroad. From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before. In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.