The Autumn Vision
In the autumn sky, the crimson sun blazes forth,
and it feels as though the blue heavens themselves
have turned into a new bride.
The red glow of the sun seems like
the crimson dye on her feet,
and the white clouds—her tinkling anklets—
ring softly in the breeze, jhumm-jhumm, endlessly.
I gaze upward, silent,
listening to that rhythm,
watching with wordless wonder.
Suddenly, from behind a drifting wisp of cloud,
a voice seems to murmur—
“Autumn has come,
the wind carries a touch of frost.”
Startled, I ask,
“Who are you? Who speaks in verse?”
No reply.
Only the poetry continues—
melting into the sky itself.
Then, before my astonished eyes,
the scattered clouds begin to gather,
forming a faint, radiant shape—
those eyes… that face… unmistakable.
There stands the Poet himself—Rabindranath Tagore—
as if woven from the light of the autumn morning.
