I have fallen from the caskets of your rhyme
Before your lips touched mine.
The shying shimmering sun of poetry besmeared
To the black ditch of night.
Perhaps in the chilly untimely eve
Long after I unfold my fists to the bleak hush
We'll cross the tranquility of a rebellious spring
Jittering away from a white New York.
Translating Tagore. Again.
1 year ago