mystic

Tell me O Swan your ancient tale…

Foto: © wak

 

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale.
From what land do you come, O Swan? to what shore will you fly?
Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek?

Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise and follow me!
There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more.
There the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent ‘He is I’ is borne on the wind:
There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) nach Kabir (1440 – 1518)

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale

Foto: © wak

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale.
From what land do you come, O Swan? to what shore will you fly?
Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek?

Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise and follow me!
There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more.
There the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent ‘He is I’ is borne on the wind:
There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) nach Kabir (1440 – 1518)

Tell me, O Swan …

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale.
From what land do you come, O Swan? to what shore will you fly?
Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek?

Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise and follow me!
There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more.
There the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent ‘He is I’ is borne on the wind:
There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) nach Kabir (1440 – 1518)

Awake, arise and follow me

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale.
From what land do you come, O Swan? to what shore will you fly?
Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek?

Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise and follow me!
There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more.
There the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent ‘He is I’ is borne on the wind:
There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) nach Kabir (1440 – 1518)