Chapter 5 5

41 The girls went to draw water from the river, and their laughter came from the woods; I longed to walk with the girls on the path leading to the river; where sheep grazed in the shade and squirrels squirmed in the sun Skimming the fallen leaves, jumping into the shadows. But I had done what I had to do for the day, my pitcher was full, and I stood outside the door, gazing at the glistening green areca leaves, and listening to the laughter of the girls drawing water by the river. Day after day, in the fresh mornings washed with dew, and in the languid dusk, taking up the task of retrieving the full tank of water is always my favorite and most cherished enjoyment.

When I was depressed and upset, the gurgling water in the full tank gently patted me; it also laughed along with my joyful thoughts and silent smile; when I was sad, it burst into tears , Whimperingly confided my heart song to me; I also walked on the road with it on a windy and rainy day, and the sound of the rain drowned out the anxious wailing of the pigeons. I've done my day's work, my pitcher is full, the western sun has dimmed, the shadows under the trees have grown deeper and heavier; from the yellow-flowered flax field comes a long sigh, and my restless eyes Looking out over the winding path in the village to the dark bank of the river.

42 Are you just a picture, as if stars and dust really exist?With the pulse of everything in the world, the stars twinkle, the dust vibrates, and your still portrait is so absolutely far away from everything, alone. You have walked with me, your breath is sweet, your limbs are full of the music of life.Your words speak for how I feel, and your face touches a chord in my heart.Suddenly, you stopped, left in the eternal shadow, and I had to walk alone. Life runs like a child, laughing and shaking the rattle of death, beckoning to me, my invisible herald going on.But you stand still, behind the dust and the stars, you are but a picture.

No, you cannot be a portrait.If the flow of your life stops, the river will stop flowing, and the colorful morning light will stop.If your black hair like the twinkling twilight disappears in hopeless darkness, the green shade of summer dies with its dreams. Will I really forget you?We hurried on our way, forgetting the green leaves and flowers on the roadside hedges.Yet the fragrance melts imperceptibly into our oblivion and fills it with music.You left the world I was in, and you found a home in the source of my life, so isn't that oblivion the memory lost in its depths? You no longer listen to my singing, you have melted into my singing, you came to me with the dawn at dawn, and left with the last golden light of the evening sun.However, since then I have always been looking for you in the dark.No, you are more than just a portrait.

44 You died, vanished from all things, and your death ended your life to all outside me; but you were fully reborn in my sorrow.I feel that my life is more perfect because, in my life, masculine strength and immortal feminine tenderness are forever united. 45 Bring beauty and order into my unhappy life, woman, as you brought them into my home while you lived.To brush away the dust of time, to fill the empty pitcher, to tend to all that is neglected.Then open the door of the inner hall of the temple, light the candle, and let us face each other in silence before God. 46 The sky contemplates its own boundless blue and sinks into dream.We, the clouds, are its whims.We are adrift, without a home.The stars shine in the crown of eternity.The record of them is permanent, while we are penciled in rough sketches that can be erased in an instant.On the stage of space, we are the characters who beat the tambourine and laugh out loud.But the thunderstorm comes from our laughter, and the raindrops are real enough that the thunder is not trivial.However, we have no right to ask for a reward from time. We come with the wind and go with the wind before we have time to name it.

47 The road is my bride.By day she whispers to me at my feet, by night she sings to my dreams. My meeting with her has no beginning and no end, it will be renewed with the dawn, with the flowers and songs of summer.Every kiss she has is like a lover's first kiss. Road and I are lovers.Every night I dress her in a new dress, and every morning I leave my old rags in the roadside inn. 48 Every day, I come and go along the same old road, delivering fruit to the market, driving the cattle to the pasture, rowing the ferry across the river, all the roads are so familiar to me. One morning, the fields were full of busy people, the pastures were full of cattle, and the breast of the earth heaved merrily with the waves of ripening rice.I walked with a heavy basket in my hand.

Suddenly, a breeze blew by, and the sky seemed to be kissing my forehead.My heart beats like the morning sun breaking through the fog. I forgot the familiar old road and took a few steps to the side of the road. The familiar scenery became strange, just like a flower, I only know it when it is in bud. I am ashamed of my usual cleverness, I have strayed from the right path and entered the fairyland-like world.It was the luck of my life that I lost my way that morning, but found the eternal heart of a child. 49 My baby, you ask me: where is heaven?The sages tell us: heaven is beyond the boundaries of life and death, and is not restricted by the alternation of day and night. Heaven does not belong to the world.

Yet your poet understands: Heaven longs for time and space, and it strives unceasingly to be born on this fruitful earth.Heaven is in your delicate body, in your beating heart, my darling. The sea beat the drums happily, and the flowers stood on tiptoe to kiss you, because heaven was born with you in the arms of mother earth. 50①The mother held the girl in her arms and sang: "Come down, come down, and kiss my darling on her little forehead." The moon smiled dreamily.The faint fragrance of flowers in summer floats in the dark; the nightingale sings from the deep shade of the quiet mango grove; a shepherd boy's flute sounds in a distant village, and the flute sound is full of infinite melancholy.The young mother sat on the steps with her child in her arms and sang softly: "Come down, come down, moon, and kiss my baby on her little forehead." She looked up at the bright moon in the sky, and bowed her head again. Looking down at the "little moon on the ground" in my arms, I looked at this peaceful moonlight in amazement.

The child laughed and sang like his mother: "Come down, come down, moon." The mother smiled, and so did the moonlit night.No one saw me, the poet, the husband of the little darling's mother, gazing at the picturesque spectacle from behind. ① This poem was written by Drijendral al Roy (1863-1913).Dikindro Lal Roy is a famous Bengali playwright and poet. He is the author of "Aryan Songs" (two volumes, 1882, 1893) and "Funny Poems" (1898).Most of his poems adopt Tagore-style free style and nursery rhyme style, which are not bound by traditional rhythm. They are characterized by fluent language and quick rhythm, but they are not refined enough.Later became Tagore's most fierce opposition.