365bet娱乐

A Tagore poem: translated by BASUDHA CHAKRAVARTY

Stand at your door once, Oh mother,
and cry out to us your call!

Evening descends on your vast plains,
darkness envelopes the earth:
Call us, Oh mother, say:
鈥淐ome to me, come to my arms;
Call in your plaintive native language:
Give us the call that floods the heart with pity鈥�
that makes the nerves and veins vibrate:
And everybody, wherever he may be,
indifferent or at play,
gets up with a start.
We crossed the river at morn,
We sought the unattainable,
We begged morsels of alien
food and tried to appease our hunger:
Now we want to recross the river,
But the ferry-boat no longer plies!
Send your boat to this bank, Mother!
Our own land lies fallow
somewhere at the end of the village:
The vast, desolate, dreary field
Wails in the restless wind!

Your light throbs in the wind,
seems likely to be extinguished:
Protect it, Oh mother, with
the edge of the cloth on your chest;
Raise it up with your right hand
so that it illumines your forehead,
so that we can know it from a far
and return home, riot being
misled by the will O鈥� the wisp:
The door is closed, Oh mother,
at the alien house on this side of the river.

The evening wind brings along
the smell of your forest flowers:
Your Cuckoo sings its last song
at some far, dark grove:
There is no longer anybody on the road:
In the deep forest the fire-fly shines:
Tears well up in restless emotion in both our eyes:
Stand out of your door, Oh
mother, and do call us!