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At the end of the day
Bringing their cattle
Back from the field to the cowshed
They have all assembled in their compound
Now they have found some rest.
The trees are swaying in the wind
Through their leaves in the dark
The evening stars can be seen.
In their own home they have sat together
You have taken your seat among them
As if you are one of their kins
They call you by various names.
Among the rich and the high
They find no recognition
They have no access to the king.
Spreading their dirty rags on the dust
These people covered in dirt
Dance around you like mad
And dare to touch your feet.
On the bank of the river
The night birds cry
In the trees fireflies glow
On the village paths now none can be seen
In the dark in the lonely meadows
The jackals howl.
In the universe so many suns shine and die
So many kingdoms rise and fall
In their midst in these village huts
Your name the poor sing.
Translation of poem13 from the collection Gitimalya by Rabindranath Tagore. As zamindar the poet must have seen the poor villagers paying devotion to God in this simple fashion involving no going to the temple, the observance of no scriptural rituals and no expenditure. They were lacking in show but not in devotion. The original poem is at http://www.rabindra-rachanabali.nltr.org/node/13172.
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