Wednesday, March 11, 2009


(Rabindranath Tagore)

CHILD, how happy you are sitting in
the dust, playing with a broken twig
all the morning.

I smile at your play with that little bit
of a broken twig.

I am busy with my accounts, adding up
figures by the hour.

Perhaps you glance at me and think,
"What a stupid game to spoil your morning

Child, I have forgotten the art of being
absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.

I seek out costly playthings, and gather
lumps of gold and silver.

With whatever you find you create your
glad games, I spend both my time and my
strength over things I never can obtain.

In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the
sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing
a game.

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