A Hundred Years From Today

A Hundred Years From Today-by Rabindranath Tagore

A hundred years from today
who are you, sitting, reading a poem of mine, under curiosity’s sway - a hundred years from today?

Not the least portion
of this young spring’s morning bliss,
neither blossom nor birdsong,
nor any of its scarlet splashes
can I drench in passion
and despatch to your hands
a hundred years hence!

Yet do this, please: unlatch your south-faced door, just sit at your window for once; basking in fantasy, eyes on the far horizon, figure out if you can:
how one day a hundred years back
roving delights in a free fall from a heavenly region had touched all that there was - the infant Phalgun day, utterly free, was frenzied, all agog, while borne on brisk wings, the south wind pollen-scent-brushed had suddenly arrived and in a flash dyed the earth with all youth’s hues a hundred years before your day.

There lived then a poet, ebullient of spirit, his heart steeped in song, who wanted to open his words like so many flowers with so much passion one day a hundred years back.

A hundred years from today
who is the new poet
whose songs flow through your homes?
To him I convey
this springtime’s gladsome greetings.
May my vernal song find its echo for a moment in your spring day in the throbbing of your hearts, in the buzzing of your bees, in the rustling of your leaves a hundred years from today.