THE CLOUDS part, the morning star appears in the East,
a breath of relief springs up from the heart of the earth,
the murmur of leaves ripples along the forest path,
and the early bird sings.
'The time has come,' proclaims the Man of faith.
'The time for what?'
'For the pilgrimage.'
They sit and think, they know not the meaning,
and yet they seem to understand according to their desires.
The touch of the dawn goes deep into the soil
and life shivers along through the roots of all things.
'To the pilgrimage of fulfilment,' a small voice
whispers, nobody knows whence.
Taken up by the crowd
it swells into a mighty meaning.
Men raise their heads and look up,
women lift their arms in reverence,
children clap their hands and laugh.
The early glow of the sun shines like a golden garland
on the forehead of the Man of faith,
and they all cry: 'Brother, we salute thee!'

THE DAY CAME for the image from the temple to be drawn round the holy town in its chariot.
        The Queen said to the King, 'Let us go and attend the festival.'
        Only one man out of the whole household did not join in the pilgrimage. His work was to collect stalks of spear-grass to make brooms for the King's house.
        The chief of the servants said in pity to him, 'You may come with us.'
He bowed his head, saying, 'It cannot be.'
The man dwelt by the road along which the King's followers had to pass.
        And when the Minister's elephant reached this spot, he called to him and said, 'Come with us and see the God ride in his chariot!'
        I dare not seek God after the King's fashion,' said the man.
        'How should you ever have such luck again as to see the God in his chariot?' asked the Minister.
        'When God himself comes to my door,' answered the man.
        The Minister laughed loud and said, 'Fool! "When God comes to your door!" yet a King must travel to see him!'
'Who except God visits the poor?' said the man.

WHEN OUR farewell moment came, like a low-hanging rain cloud, I had only time to tie a red ribbon on your wrist, while my hands trembled. Today I sit alone on the grass in the season of mahua flowers, with one quivering question in my mind, 'Do you still keep the little red ribbon tied on your wrist?'
You went by the narrow road that skirted the blossoming field of flax. I saw that my garland of overnight was still hanging loose from your hair. But why did you not wait till I could gather, in the morning, new flowers for my final gift? I wonder if unaware it dropped on your way,-the garland hanging loose from your hair.
Many a song I had sung to you, morning and evening, and the last one you carried in your voice when you went away. You never tarried to hear the one song unsung I had for you alone and for ever. I wonder if, at last, you are tired of my song that you hummed to yourself while walking through the field.