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Rabindranath Tagore - At The Last Watch
Work rating: Medium

Pity, in place of love,
     That pettiest of gifts,
Is but a sugar-coating over neglect.
     Any passerby can make a gift of it
         To a street beggar,
Only to forget the moment the first corner is turned.
         I had not hoped for anything more that day.

You left during the last watch of night.
     I had hoped you would say goodbye,
          Just say `Adieu` before going away,
     What you had said another day,
              What I shall never hear again.
                 In their place, just that one word,
Bound by the thin fabric of a little compassion
           Would even that have been too much for you to bear?

           When I first awoke from sleep
                    My heart fluttered with fear
             Lest the time had been over.
               I rushed out of bed.
       The distant church clock chimed half past twelve
               I sat waiting near the door of my room
                   Resting my head against it,
     Facing the porch through which you would come out.

Even that tiniest of chances
   Was snatched away by fate from hapless me;
   I fell asleep
        Shortly before you left.
Perhaps you cast a sidelong glance
            At my reclining body
     Like a broken boat left high and dry.
   Perhaps you walked away with care
             Lest you wake me up.
   Awaking with a start I knew at once
             That my vigil had been wasted
   I realised, what was to go went away in a moment,
        What was to stay behind stayed on
             For all time.

Silence everywhere
   Like that of a birds` nest bereft of birds
        On the bough of a songless tree.
With the lifeless light of the waning moon was now blended
        The pallor of dawn
   Spreading itself over the greyness of my empty life.
                  I walked towards your bedroom
                                     For no reason.
                      Outside the door
               Burnt a smoky lantern covered with soot,
            The porch smelt of the smouldering wick.
Over the abandoned bed the flaps of the rolled-up mosquito-net
                    Fluttered a little in the breeze.
             Seen in the sky outside through the window
                         Was the morning star,
                    Witness of all sleepless people
                         Bereft of hope.

Suddenly I found you had left behind by mistake
Your gold-mounted ivory walking stick.
       If there were time, I thought,
       You might come back from the station to look for it,
       But not because
   You had not seen me before going away.
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