|Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears,|
O Death, my Death?
When the flowers droop in the evening
and cattle come back to their stalls,
you stealthily come to my side and speak words
that I do not understand.
Is this how you must woo and win me
with the opiate of drowsy murmur
and cold kisses, O Death, my Death?
Will there be no proud ceremony for our wedding?
Will you not tie up with a wreath your tawny coiled locks?
Is there none to carry your banner before you,
and will not the night be on fire
with your red torch-lights, O Death, my Death?
Come with your conch-shells sounding,
come in the sleepless night.
Dress me with a crimson mantle,
grasp my hand and take me.
Let your chariot be ready at my door
with your horses neighing impatiently.
Raise my veil and look at my face proudly,
O Death, my Death!
~ Rabindranath Tagore