At the end of the day

Bringing their cattle

Back from the field to the cowshed

They have all assembled in their compound

Now they have found some rest.

The trees are swaying in the wind

Through their leaves in the dark

The evening stars can be seen.

 

In their own home they have sat together

You have taken your seat among them

As if you are one of their kins

They call you by various names.

Among the rich and the high

They find no recognition

They have no access to the king.

Spreading their dirty rags on the dust

These people covered in dirt

Dance around you like mad

And dare to touch your feet.

 

On the bank of the river

The night birds cry

In the trees fireflies glow

On the village paths now none can be seen

In the dark in the lonely meadows

The jackals howl.

 

In the universe so many suns shine and die

So many kingdoms rise and fall

In their midst in these village huts

Your name the poor sing.

Translation of poem13 from the collection Gitimalya by Rabindranath Tagore. As zamindar the poet must have seen the poor villagers paying devotion to God in this simple fashion involving no going to the temple, the observance of no scriptural rituals and no expenditure. They were lacking in show but not in devotion. The original poem is at http://www.rabindra-rachanabali.nltr.org/node/13172.