gitanjali

I THOUGHT I should ask of thee- but I
dared not- the rose wreath thou
hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for
the morning, when thou didst depart,
to find a few fragments on the bed.
And like a beggar I searched in the
dawn only for a stray fetal or two.

Ah me, what is it I find ? What
Token left of thy love ? It is no flower,
no spices, no vase of perfumed water .
It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a
Flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The
young light of morning comes through
the window and spreads itself upon
thy bed. The morning bird twitters
and asks, "Woman, what hast thou
got?" No, it is no flower, nor spices,
nor vase of perfumed water- it is thy
dreadful sword.

I sit and muse in wonder, what gift
is this of thine. I can find no place
where to hide it. I am ashamed to
wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me
when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall
I bear in my heart this honour of the
burden of pain, this gift of thine.

From now there shall be no fear
left for me in this world, and thou
shalt be victorious in all my strife.
Thou hast left death for my
companion and I shall crown
with my life. Thy sword is with me to
cut asunder my bonds, and there shall
be no fear left for me in the world.

From now I leave off all petty
decorations. Lord of my heart, no
more shall there be for me waiting
and weeping in corners, no more
coyness and sweetness of demeanour.
Thou hast given me thy sword for
adornment. No more doll's decoratins
for me