It Grows Like
a Tree
UMANATH BHATTACHARYA
If the tree is left to wither away
The flower, too, would fade and die.
The petals will fall one by one
Like tears dribbling from the eye.
That is why I say
Be not mindless of this delicate plant
Fill your water-can,
And with your own hand
Shower on it tenderly;
For love is a sensitive thing
And grows like a tree
Hankering for the requital.
Love isn’t something etherial
Needs it nurture in a passionate heart.
Platonic love! O! It’s something nothing
A fantastic dream of an immature visionary
What use running after the shadow illusive.
That’s beyond one’s grasp?
Affection is fed with affection,
Deny it, and it will die of starvation.
I aver again
No devotee am I of the formless.