broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game
to spoil your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time
and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget
that I too am playing a game.
Playthings from THE CRESCENT MOON
By Rabindranath Tagore
Grateful thanks to Prof S Raghunathan for sending this poem to me.
