TO–
BY
PRAPHULLADATTA GOSWAMI
You who
wring out your heart in tune
you who
sing of the colour of the skies
and of
the feel of the Spring sighs,
why do I
cast my eye on the moon
and miss
there something I would find,
something
that is open and full of feeling
for all
of us, half-fed mortals,
which
your melodies only remind?
Your
coursing tunes but unlock a door
in the
heart to all the pent up claim
that man
has been putting across to man
and
finding ignored, always, evermore.