Literature Network » Rabindranath Tagore » The Crescent Moon » Playthings

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.

Literature Network » Rabindranath Tagore » The Crescent Moon » Playthings