There is a song bereft of shore, where
The boat will not wander off to, where
The sink of rock will not listen to,
Where the dark of your moon’s moon is
Ready to fly. “When?” you ask. That is
The time for the forbidden to lay low.
But I seek to mend the roof of snow, the
Guilt of your sun’s sun, and the plough
Of snow snuffed with mud. I seek to rend
The wow, the now, the stilted, stunted
Crew of yore. Your friend, your deep pockets
Of lore will dare to stand by and linger.
On many an idle day, the
stone turns red as
light turns to stone, as
wheat turns to chaff as it turns to stone, and then you remember
to break bread, speak sun, cry prayer, shed
tear to make whole the stone, the full, the
red, the idle day is idle no more.
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.
from Tagore’s Gitanjali.