Happy Birthday, My Good Sir...

O Bearded One...

Your name I have heard from my early days.
But all I knew then was that,
You were this majestic looking man.
Your name was Rabindranath Tagore,
And yes - that you wrote poetry.
A line here, a stanza there -
I read as I dabbled in poetry, as I analysed them.
But understand you I could not,
Not for the life of me, I could.

But now - as I read your poems
Your message reaches me as voluntarily as breeze.
Leaving me soothed, refreshed, and pleasantly surprised.
I asked myself many times,
How could something so complex suddenly appear simple.
Just now, just as I started writing to you,
The answer came upon me.
Like the very breeze -
You have been sending to touch my face, of late.

I can almost hear you answer me -
In the breezy way you do in your poems.
Of why you had stood at a distance -
as I was reaching out to touch you.
True, my good sir,
How could I have known and understood you then,
When all I did was to analyse you.
Can divinity ever be analysed?
Can wisdom ever be studied?

How inappropriately ignorant I had been.

But you see, my dear sir,
It was not until recently that I started living poetry,
And that is why,
It was not until recently that I really understood you.
I know now sir,
That you only speak your breezy language,
To those who reach out to you from the heart,
To those who wish to feel you without any pretence.

And to those you will send -
Your breezy wisdom,
That you so beautifully crafted into lyrical masterpieces.

Happy Birthday, my good sir,
My loving wishes to you.