The Cycle of Spring. Rabindranath Tagore
Зарубежная драматургия.
The Cycle of Spring
Song of the Bamboo<br><br>O South Wind, the Wanderer, come and rock me, Rouse me into the rapture of new leaves. I am the wayside bamboo tree, waiting for your breath To tingle life into my branches.<br><br>O South Wind, the Wanderer, my dwelling is in the end of the lane. I know your wayfaring, and the language of your footsteps. Your least touch thrills me out of my slumber,<br><br>Your whisper gleans my secrets.<br><br>(Enter a troop of girls, dancing, representing birds.)<br><br>Song of the Bird<br><br>The sky pours its light into our hearts, We fill the sky with songs in answer. We pelt the air with our notes When the air stirs our wings with its madness. O Flame of the Forest, All your flower-torches are ablaze;<br><br>You have kissed our songs red with the passion of your youth.<br><br>In the spring breeze the mango-blossoms launch their messages to the unknown<br><br>And the new leaves dream aloud all day.