The Gardener, by Rabindranath Tagore, II

February 13, 2008, [MD]


In the morning I cast my net into the sea.

I dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and strange beauty - some shone like a smile, and some glistened like tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride.

When with the day’s burden I went home, my love was sitting in the garden, idly tearing the leaves of a flower.

I hesitated for a moment, and then placed at her feet all that I had dragged up, and stood silent.

She glanced at them and said, ‘What strange things are these? I know not of what use they are!’

I bowed my head in shame and thought, ‘I have not fought for these, I did not buy them in the market; they are not fit gifts for her.’

Then the whole night through I flung them one by one into the street.

In the morning travelers came; they picked them up and carried them into far countries.

(thanks to christin-g-O @ flickr for the picture, full text at Wikisource)

Stian Håklev February 13, 2008 Toronto, Canada
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