PRATIMA

                                                           

She is the fourteenth phase of the moon descended,

Who paused reaching the fringe of the full moon.

For a slight touch of imperfection,

The earth does not hesitate to call her, her own.

On her exile on the earth

She does not wear a veil of aversion.

In the crowd of the world

She remains poised within herself;

Unperturbed in weal and woe.

Her patience is full of cheers

That dispels the presence of all anxiety.

If disease comes threatening,

A tender silent smile clings to her placid mien

Calamities like clouds,

Float not a few beneath her.

Time and again

But fail to extinguish her glow.

There is yet something lacking in her glory;

There she conceals,

Her tears,

Touched by the inkling of sadness-

Slightly perplexing.

That tiny imperfection

Is never vocal,

None can observe,

Not even those who constantly remain around her.

Unbounded heaven has recognized its bound on the earth.

Is her name Pratima (an image-like one)?

                                                                                                   

                                                                                                  -  Rabindranath Tagore