Ungrateful Sorrow Poem By Rabindranath Tagore

Ungrateful Sorrow Poem By Rabindranath Tagore

At dawn, shey departed

My mind tried to console me -

' Everything is Maya'.

Angrily I replied:

'Here's this sewing box on the table,

that flower pot on the terrace,

this monogrammed hand fan on the bed- -

all these are real.'

My mind said: 'Yet, think again.'

I rejoined: ' You better stop.

Look at this storybook,

the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves,

signaling the rest is unread;

if all these things are 'Maya',

why should 'shey' be more unreal? '

My mind becomes silent.

A friend arrived and said:

'That which is good is real

it is never nonexistent;

entire world preserves and cherishes its chest

like a precious jewel in a necklace.'

I replied in anger: 'How do you know?

Is a body not good? Where did that body go? '

Like a small boy in a rage hitting his mother,

I began to strike at everything in this world

that gave me shelter.

And I screamed:' The world is treacherous.'

Suddenly, I was startled.

It seemed like someone admonished me:' You- ungrateful! '

I looked at the crescent moon

hidden behind the tamarisk tree outside my window.

As if the dear departed one is smiling

and playing hide-and-seek with me.

From the depth of darkness punctuated by scattered stars

came a rebuke: 'when I let you grasp me you call it a deception,

and yet when I remain concealed,

why do you hold on to your faith in me with such conviction? '

Rabindranath Tagore

Also Read:

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