gitanjali

THE rain has held back for days and
days, my. God, in my arid heart. The
horizon is fiercely naked- not the
thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the
vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.

Send thy angry storm, dark with
death, if it is thy wish, and with
lashes of lightning startle the sky
from end to end.

But call back, my lord, call back
this pervading silent heat, still and
keen and cruel, burning the heart
with dire despair.

Let the cloud of grace bend low
from above like the tearful look of the
mother on the day of the father's
wrath.