Hands cling to hands and eyes linger <br />on eyes: thus begins the record of our <br />hearts. <br /> It is the moonlit night of March; <br />the sweet smell of henna is in the air; <br />my flute lies on the earth neglected <br />and your garland of flowers is <br />unfinished. <br /> This love between you and me is <br />simple as a song. <br /> Your veil of the saffron colour <br />makes my eyes drunk. <br /> The jasmine wreath that you wove <br />me thrills to my heart like praise. <br /> It is a game of giving and with- <br />holding, revealing and screening again; <br />some smiles and some little shyness, <br />and some sweet useless struggles. <br /> This love between you and me is <br />simple as a song. <br /> No mystery beyond the present; <br />no striving for the impossible; no <br />shadow behind the charm; no groping <br />in the depth of the dark. <br /> This love between you and me is <br />simple as a song. <br /> We do not stray out of all words <br />into the ever silent; we do not raise <br />our hands to the void for things <br />beyond hope. <br /> It is enough what we give and we <br />get. <br /> We have not crushed the joy to <br />the utmost to wring from it the wine <br />of pain. <br /> This love between you and me is <br />simple as a song.<br /><br />Rabindranath Tagore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gardener-xvi-hands-cling-to-eyes/
