Diaries

Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of the wild rhythm?
to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy?Listen,
canst thou hear from every direction of the sky,
from all the sun, moon and stars,
the harp player of death smiting forth;
a fiery round of pulsing in burning joy!
The hurricane of maddening tunes is carrying onwards all that ever is.
Everything moves, they stop not, they look not behind,
they can never be kept bound in bonds-
they are snatched and swirled and borne on by the liberating joy.
Keeping steps with that restless rapid music,
seasons come dancing and then pass away-
colours, tunes and perfumes pour in endless cascades;
in the abandoning joy that scatters and gives up,
and dies every moment.

Tagore's Gitanjali
facsimile of the original manuscript