Icicle, born in antiquity
Hanging in contemporaneity. They call it sun.
For her, its the incentive to run
Forsaking the transparency, or the myth of it
Slender, stained, angled to a stranger's rooftop
The playmate of winter grows unveiled
And on nights when the chilly foes yearned,
For my skin, embellished in frost
I would step out, impressing on;
Inciting Icicle's tears, dropping cold
Quenching the stick of fire, I tamed
Between my fingers. Whispered eclipse,
Till the drop died wet , annealed in amazement.
Translating Tagore. Again.
1 year ago