Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a <br />branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and <br />danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother? <br />You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to <br />myself and keep quite quiet. <br />I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. <br />When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, <br />you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court <br />where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the <br />flower, but not know that it cane from me. <br />When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading <br />ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, <br />I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, <br />just where you were reading. <br />But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your <br />little child? <br />When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted <br />lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and <br />be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story. <br />"Where have you been, you naughty child?" <br />"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say <br />then.<br /><br />Sir Rabindranath Tagore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-chanpa-flower-2/
