I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset was
hiding its last gold like a miser.
The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness, and the
widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent.
Suddenly a boy's shrill voice rose into the sky. He traversed
the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song across the hush of
the evening.
His village home lay there at the end of the waste land,
beyond the sugar-cane field, hidden among the shadows of the banana
and the slender areca palm, the coconut and the dark green jack-
fruit trees.
I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight,
and saw spread before me the darkened earth surrounding with her
arms countless homes furnished with cradles and beds, mother's
hearts and evening lamps, and young lives glad with a gladness that
knows nothing of its value for the world.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
I'd never heard of this poet before, so I was surprised to find that he is one of the best modern Indian writers. I'm impressed by his accomplishments, such as winning the Nobel prize. Honestly, I might not have read him if not for this fact.
I chose to read this poem because it had no other comments. It reads more like prose and reminds me of some of Walt Whitman's long lines of poetry.
What I like most about the poem is its depth, though. I know that probably sounds cheesy. Yet, it's not a poem only about nature or a sunset or a young boy. It is a poem about home. Not a poem about a house or a bed or a chair or a earthen floor, either.
This poem is about being home. It's about knowing your surroundings and being part of them. It's about being mindful of the influence you have on the earth and its inhabitants, as well as the influence that the land and nature has on humans.
I love the closing line. It's a handful of a type of sand that we each owned beaches full of when we were children, yet that we would be hard pressed to come up with a teaspoon full of as an adult.
Adding your comment:
