Farewell Tagore
It’s time for me to go, mother; I’m leaving. When in the quiet dawn, you stretch out your arms in the dark to hold your child sleeping on the bed, I want to say: "The child is not there!" - Mom, I'm leaving. I want to become a breeze caressing you; I want to become a ripple in the water, kissing you again and again when you take a bath. On a windy night, when the raindrops patter on the leaves, you will hear my whisper in bed: when the lightning flashes into your house through the open window, my laughter flashes in with him. If you lie awake in bed, thinking about your child until late at night, I will sing to you from the starry sky: "Sleep! Mom, sleep." I will sit on the moonlight that wanders everywhere and come to you secretly On the bed, when you fall asleep, lie on your chest. I want to become a dream, slipping through the tiny cracks in your eyelids and into the depths of your sleep. When you wake up and look around in surprise, I fly into the darkness like a shining firefly. When the children from the neighborhood come to play on Durga Puja, I will melt into the sound of the flute and vibrate in your heart all day long. My dear aunt comes with Durga Puja gifts and asks, “Where is our child, sister?” Mother, you will tell her softly, “He, he is in the pupils of my eyes now, he is Now it's in my body, in my soul.
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