The song that I came to sing remains
unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and in
unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words
have not been rightly set; only there is the
agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened; only the
wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I
listened to his voice; only I have heard his
gentle footsteps from the road before my
The livelong day has passed in spreading
his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not
been lit and I cannot ask him into my
I live in the hope of meeting with him;
but the meeting is not yet.
P.S. this poem phrases my mental condition. Had I been Tagore, I would have written the above lines, but Chitra that i am ,you had to read the post below. : ).