Tagore: PRAKRITI 118

The night reverberates with the monsoon’s drone
As I string the aching memories all alone
The door to my room, dark, is kept ajar,
I wonder in what oversight
I suppose my companion is coming:
my friend for this plaintive night
With his coming he renders music to the rain
And the Kadamba grove shivers in pleasure
Even if he never arrives, I shall hope in vain
Placing our mat on the dust for good measure

MEANING

I ask you: ‘Is love still there?’
‘Don’t know…think so’, you say
Meaning: there is none.

Then why do you call me so,
Talking of life and us?
Meaning, there is none.

DREAMS FOR AN INDIAN SUMMER

By the window, pretty mauve
Flowers quiver in the breeze
Now you place one in my hair,
On my forehead: a moist kiss

The mauve blossoms have withered
To traces of sickly pink
The bleaching glare of summer
Leaves colours in dreams alone

The heat, the haze, the fever
The wakeful dreams in stupor
Long are these days: never-ending;
The nights, sleepless and sweaty