The End

It is time for me to go, mother;

I am going.    When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch outyour arms for your baby in the bed,

I shall say, "Baby is nothere!"-mother,

I am going.    I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you andI shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you andkiss you again.    In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves youwill hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash withthe lightning through the open window into your room.    If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into thenight,

I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep."    One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, andlie upon your bosom while you sleep.    I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of youreyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when youwake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shallflit out into the darkness.    When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' childrencome and play about the house,

I shall melt into the music of theflute and throb in your heart all day.    Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,"Whereis our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is inthe pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul."(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)