O dear love, you've come back home.
Wandering through the hills and the halls,
Through the blossoms and the showers,
Through the sweet scents and sunshine,
You've come back home, here, to me.
Your flute of a reed in your hand,
Dainty lilies in another, twigs in your hair,
Stories and songs glistening in your eyes,
You've come back home, here, to me.
Breathing in melodies of the mountains,
Of deep gorges and gurgling streams,
Into your flute of a reed in your hand,
You've come back home, here, to me.
Calloused hands, heavy from the tales
That you wove from the people of
Unnamed towns and unlit villages for me,
You've come back home, here, to me.
Eyes that have burnt darker by the sun
Dancing and blazing upon you, eyes that
Have seen things more than beautiful than me
You've come back home, here, to me.
What is it, O dear love, that has brought
Your soul which belongs to the wilderness
Right back to the sober, mundane soul of mine that
You've come back home, here, to me?
Emptying your baggage at my feet full of poems,
Places, people, mountains, rivers and flowers,
You look at me and whisper, "'Tis love that
You've got me back home, here, to you."
•
Author's note:
Rabindranath Tagore has been and will always be my inspiration. :') This poem is inspired by one of his poems.