THE SUNSET OF THE CENTURY
*SUNSET
OF THE CENTURY: Rabindranath Tagore
THE LAST SUN OF THE CENTURY SETS
AMIDST THE BLOOD-RED COLOURS OF THE WEST
AND THE WHIRLWIND OF HATRED.
THE NAKED PASSION OF SELF-LOVE OF NATIONS
IN ITS DRUNKEN DELIRIUM OF GREED
IS DANCING TO THE CLASH OF STEEL
AND THE HOWLING VERSES OF VENGEANCE.
THE HUNGRY SELF OF THE NATION SHALL
BURST IN A VIOLENCE OF FURY
FROM ITS OWNSHAMELESS FEEDING
FOR IT HAS MADE THE WORLDITS FOOD,
AND LICKING IT, CRUNCHING IT AND
SWALLOWING IT IN BIG MORSELS,
IT SWELLS AND SWELLS
TILL IN THE MIDST OF ITS UNHOLY FEAST
DESCENDS THE SUDDEN HEAVEN
PIERCING ITS HEART OF GROSSNESS…
*Note:
“The Sunset of the Century”, translated by the poet, from Naivedya; The English
Writings of Rabindranathtagore, Volume
II,Delhi 1996, page 466. Quoted in his article ‘Critiquing nationalism’ by K
Satchidanandan (Frontline, November 14, 2014). The article takes you to a much
broader spectrum.
HAPPY
READING(READ MORE STANZAS OF THE POEM BELOW)
M
G Warrier
November
6,2014
**THE SUNSET OF THE CENTURY: Rabindranath
Tagore
(Written in the Bengali on the last day of last
century)
1
The last sun of the century sets amidst the
blood-red clouds of the West and the whirlwind of hatred.
The naked passion of self-love of Nations, in its drunken delirium of greed, is dancing to the clash of steel and the howling verses of vengeance.
The naked passion of self-love of Nations, in its drunken delirium of greed, is dancing to the clash of steel and the howling verses of vengeance.
2
The hungry self of the Nation shall burst in a
violence of fury from its own shameless feeding.
For it has made the world its food,
And licking it, crunching it and swallowing it in big morsels,
It swells and swells
Till in the midst of its unholy feast descends the sudden shaft of heaven piercing its heart of grossness.
For it has made the world its food,
And licking it, crunching it and swallowing it in big morsels,
It swells and swells
Till in the midst of its unholy feast descends the sudden shaft of heaven piercing its heart of grossness.
3
The crimson glow of light on the horizon is not
the light of thy dawn of peace, my Motherland.
It is the glimmer of the funeral pyre burning to ashes the vast flesh,—the self-love of the Nation—dead under its own excess.
Thy morning waits behind the patient dark of the East,
Meek and silent.
It is the glimmer of the funeral pyre burning to ashes the vast flesh,—the self-love of the Nation—dead under its own excess.
Thy morning waits behind the patient dark of the East,
Meek and silent.
4
Keep watch, India.
Bring your offerings of worship for that sacred sunrise.
Let the first hymn of its welcome sound in your voice and sing
“Come, Peace, thou daughter of God’s own great suffering.
Come with thy treasure of contentment, the sword of fortitude,
And meekness crowning thy forehead.”
Bring your offerings of worship for that sacred sunrise.
Let the first hymn of its welcome sound in your voice and sing
“Come, Peace, thou daughter of God’s own great suffering.
Come with thy treasure of contentment, the sword of fortitude,
And meekness crowning thy forehead.”
5
Be not ashamed, my brothers, to stand before the
proud and the powerful
With your white robe of simpleness.
Let your crown be of humility, your freedom the freedom of the soul.
Build God’s throne daily upon the ample bareness of your poverty
And know that what is huge is not great and pride is not everlasting.
With your white robe of simpleness.
Let your crown be of humility, your freedom the freedom of the soul.
Build God’s throne daily upon the ample bareness of your poverty
And know that what is huge is not great and pride is not everlasting.
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**Source: Google search.
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