Posted by on Nov 11, 2013 in Uncategorized | 0 comments

translators scrapbook_beauty

The voice of wayside pansies,
that do not attract the careless glance,
murmurs in these desultory lines.

Jewel-like the immortal
does not boast of its length of years
but of the scintillating point of its moment.

The rainbow among the clouds may be great but the little butterfly among the bushes is greater.

The butterfly has leisure to love the lotus,
not the bee busily storing honey.

translator's scrapbook_eyes

The world speaks to me in pictures
my soul answers in music.

The world knows that the few
are more than many.

Hills are the earth’s gesture of despair for the unreachable.

Fireflies, Rabindranath Tagore