Published in 1906, Megh (cloud) can be found in Tagore’s collection called Kheya (boat).
Adrift, without a beginning and an end,
With an awning of black and white blend,
The sky is dressed whimsically.
We are all merely mounds,
Stacks of wafting clouds.
I think only of him and his whimsicality.
We have no boundaries nor home,
We come and we are gone.
Suns, planets, stars shine bright.
Though they are garlands of lights,
They remain tied to eternal tasks.
With permanence, they grace
Words illuminating a dark page.
We are merely like drafts—
With myriad of colours filled,
Re-written and erased at will.
Sometimes, when we are free,
We call out in a spree,
Smiling without a reason.
Does our caprice create an illusion?
The rain still falls without evasion.
The lightning is not a diversion.
Only, my friend, we do not stay.
With the breeze, we drift in or float away.
(This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial support from Sohana Manzoor)
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