Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Playthings

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust,
playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"

Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver. With whatever you find you create your glad games,
I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.

- Rabindranath Tagore -

1 Comments:

Blogger AscenderRisesAbove said...

very nice poem; children's play being thier work; adults work being thier play...

8/16/2006 4:51 PM  

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