A hundred years from today -by Rabindranath Tagore
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Pradosh Mukherjee
Aug 8, 2011, 3:21:50 PM8/8/11
to doeacc...@googlegroups.com, nsou...@googlegroups.com, shuvendu. banerjee, sourav mutt, Arka Bhattacharyay, Bhaskar Sur, Biswajit Kundu, Debasri Chatterjee, Debrata Ganguly, Monojit Banerjee, Partha Prathim Saha, Partha Pratim Saha, Samit Dey, Samit Dey, Sandip Roy, snehasis das, Sushmit Mukherjee, SUSMIT CHAKRABORTY
A hundred years from today
who are you, sitting, reading a poem of mine, under curiosity’s sway - a hundred years from today?
Not the least portion
of this young spring’s morning bliss,
neither blossom nor birdsong,
nor any of its scarlet splashes
can I drench in passion
and despatch to your hands
a hundred years hence!
Yet do this, please: unlatch your south-faced door, just sit at your window for once; basking in fantasy, eyes on the far horizon, figure out if you can:
how one day a hundred years back
roving delights in a free fall from a heavenly region had touched all that there was - the infant Phalgun day, utterly free, was frenzied, all agog, while borne on brisk wings, the south wind pollen-scent-brushed had suddenly arrived and in a flash dyed the earth with all youth’s hues a hundred years before your day.
There lived then a poet, ebullient of spirit, his heart steeped in song, who wanted to open his words like so many flowers with so much passion one day a hundred years back.
A hundred years from today
who is the new poet
whose songs flow through your homes?
To him I convey
this springtime’s gladsome greetings.
May my vernal song find its echo for a moment in your spring day in the throbbing of your hearts, in the buzzing of your bees, in the rustling of your leaves a hundred years from today.
-- who are you, sitting, reading a poem of mine, under curiosity’s sway - a hundred years from today?
Not the least portion
of this young spring’s morning bliss,
neither blossom nor birdsong,
nor any of its scarlet splashes
can I drench in passion
and despatch to your hands
a hundred years hence!
Yet do this, please: unlatch your south-faced door, just sit at your window for once; basking in fantasy, eyes on the far horizon, figure out if you can:
how one day a hundred years back
roving delights in a free fall from a heavenly region had touched all that there was - the infant Phalgun day, utterly free, was frenzied, all agog, while borne on brisk wings, the south wind pollen-scent-brushed had suddenly arrived and in a flash dyed the earth with all youth’s hues a hundred years before your day.
There lived then a poet, ebullient of spirit, his heart steeped in song, who wanted to open his words like so many flowers with so much passion one day a hundred years back.
A hundred years from today
who is the new poet
whose songs flow through your homes?
To him I convey
this springtime’s gladsome greetings.
May my vernal song find its echo for a moment in your spring day in the throbbing of your hearts, in the buzzing of your bees, in the rustling of your leaves a hundred years from today.
Regards,
Pradosh Mukherjee
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