The Collected Plays. Rabindranath Tagore

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      SONG-PRELUDE

      (There enter a troupe of young things, and they introduce themselves in a song as follows:)

       THE SONG OF RETURNING YOUTH

      Again and again we say "Good-bye,"

       To come back again and again.

       Oh, who are you?

       I am the flower vakul.

       And who are you?

       I am the flower parul.

       And who are these?

       We are mango blossoms landed on the shore of light.

       We laugh and take leave when the time beckons us.

       We rush into the arms of the ever-returning.

       But who are you?

       I am the flower shimul.

       And who are you?

       I am the kamini bunch,

       And who are these?

       We are the jostling crowd of new leaves.

      (Winter is revealed as Spring and answers to the questions put by the chorus of young things.)

       THE SONG OF BURDENS DROPPED

      Do you own defeat at the hand of youth?

       Yes.

       Have you met at last the ageless Old, who ever grows new?

       Yes.

       Have you come out of the walls that crumble and bury those whom they shelter?

       Yes.

      (Another group sings.)

      Do you own defeat at the hands of life?

       Yes.

       Have you passed through death to stand at last face to face with the Deathless?

       Yes.

       Have you dealt the blow to the demon dust, that swallows your city Immortal?

       Yes.

      (Spring's flowers surround him and sing.)

       THE SONG OF FRESH BEAUTY

      We waited by the wayside counting moments till you appeared in the April morning.

       You come as a soldier-boy winning life at death's gate,—

       Oh, the wonder of it.

       We listen amazed at the music of your young voice.

       Your mantle is blown in the wind like the fragrance of the Spring.

       The white spray of malati flowers in your hair shines like star-clusters.

       A fire burns through the veil of your smile,—

       Oh, the wonder of it.

       And who knows where your arrows are hidden which smite death?

      (Night)

      (The rear stage is darkened, and the light on the main stage dimmed to the heavy purple blackness of mourning.)

      (Enter the Band of Youths.)

      Chandra has gone away again, leaving us behind.

      It is difficult to keep him still.

      We get our rest by sitting down, but he gets his by walking on.

      He has gone across the river with the blind minstrel, in whose depth of blindness Chandra is seeking the invisible light.

      That is why our Leader calls him the Diver.

      Our life becomes utterly empty, when Chandra is away.

      Do you feel as though something was in the air?

      The sky seems to be looking into our face, like a friend bidding farewell.

      This little stream of water is trickling through the casuarina grove. It seems like the tears of midnight.

      We have never gazed upon the earth before with such intentness.

      When we run forward at full speed, our eyes keep gazing in front of us, and we see nothing on either side of us.

      If things did not move on and vanish, we should see no beauty anywhere.

      If youth had only the heat of movement, it would get parched and withered. But there is ever the hidden tear, which keeps it fresh.

      The cry of the world is not only "I have," but also "I give." In the first dawning light of creation, "I have" was wedded to "I give." If this bond of union were to snap, then everything would go to ruin.

      I don't know where that blind Minstrel has landed us at last.

      It seems as though these stars in the sky above us are the gazing of countless eyes we met in all forgotten ages. It seems as if, through the flowers, there came the whisper of those we have forgotten, saying Remember us.

      Our hearts will break if we do not sing.

      (They sing.)

      Did you leave behind you your love, my heart, and miss peace through all your days?

       And is the path you followed lost and forgotten, making your return hopeless?

       I go roaming listening to brooks' babble, to the rustle of leaves.

       And it seems to me that I shall find the way, that reaches the land of lost love beyond the evening stars.

      What a strange tune is this, that comes out of the music of Spring.

      It seems like the tune of yellow leaves.

      Spring has stored up its tears in secret for us all this while.

      It was afraid we should not understand it, because we were so youthful.

      It wanted to beguile us with smiles.

      But we shall sleep our hearts tonight in the sadness of the other shore.

      Ah, the dear earth! The beautiful earth! She wants all that we have—the touch of our hands, the song of our hearts.

      She wants to draw out from us all that is within, hidden even from ourselves.

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