as a Song
(Indian)Rabindranath
Tagore
Hands
cling to
hands eyes
linger1 on
eyes: thus
begins the
record of
our
hearts. It
is the
moonlight
night of
March; the
sweet
smell of
henna is
in the
air; My
lute2 lies
on the
earth
neglected
and your
garland of
flowers
unfinished.
This love
between
you and me
is simple
as a song.
Your veil
of the
saffron
colour
makes my
eyes
drunk. The
jasmine
wreath
that you
wove me
thrills to
my heart
like
praise. It
is a game
