Poem of the day-100: Play Things by Tagore

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a 
                                    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.