Witterings

'Who will buy me, who will buy me, rid me of my cares?'
Thus I shout and thus I wander through my nights and days;
    And with each day that passes
    My basket presses
    Upon my head more heavily.
People come and go: some laugh; some watch me tearfully.

At noon I make my way along the king's great stone-paved road,
And soon he comes in his chariot, sword in hand, crown on his head.
    'I'll buy by force,' he says
    And grabs me, tries
    To drag me off. I wriggle free
With ease; the king climbs into his golden chariot and rides away.

In small back lanes I wander past bolted and shuttered doors.
A door opens; an old man with a money-bag appears.
    He examines what I have
    And says, 'I'll give
    You gold.' He returns again and again,
Empties his purse. With far-off thoughts I carry my basket on.

At evening over the richly blossoming forest moonbeams fall.
Near to the base of a bakul-tree I meet a beautiful girl.
    She edges close: 'My smile
    Will make you sell,'
    She says. Her smile soon turns to weeping.
Slowly, softly she moves away into the woodland gloaming.

Along the sea-shore the sun shines, the sea breaks and rolls.
A child is on the sandy beach: he sits playing with shells.
    He seems to know me; he says,
    'I'll buy your cares
    For nothing.' Suddenly I am released
From my heavy load; his playful face has won me free of cost.

--Rabindranath Tagore/William Radice