Challenge at CDHK to “distill” the following poem by Tagore:
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord [LORD].
There is none to count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.
Thou knowest how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose,
and having no time we must scramble for a chance.
We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by
while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,
and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut;
but I find that yet there is time.
© Rabindranath Tagore, Endless Time
“Endless Time”
My “distillation” in tanka form:
trace curved flow of hours
marked by celestial bodies
— our minutes’ limits —
seek face of eternal LORD
above / beyond track of time
© lynn__
