I want to drive him to the country and sit in the silence like dew.
And listen to the grass stained hills take little sips of air.
And listen to the roosters gasp for the light of the rising sun.
I want him to feel this – this Texas.
Where the crickets croak eternal  
and the cayotes call confused to country dogs like the wild.
I want to drive him to the country and weep excess tears
down our cold, city scathed cheeks
in rhythm with the birds as they sing their morning songs –
and swoon each other awake.
Who will swallow the worm as prey?
And you’ll hear them say:
maybe it isn’t so much about all you do and do and do?
and the sun’s lips share the same message,
but only to the few who know a Texas country morning
like a well-kept secret:
whose cups catch the cows stretching when they wake.

I want to drive him to the country and cry
and decide what life is like in synchronous solitude
with her timelessness
Singing of Dawn’s baby yawn -
the sound of her silence a sweet surprise.
Her fingertips linger
on each blade, on each bend, on each bug and tree.
I want him to understand the longing in each whistle and tune –
for country cravings aren’t satisfied with one lover’s hand,
but imbued with the light touch of a million–
all abundant in each drop of river and pond.
And when he sees the shadow of fences lining pasture walls
and reflecting on the wet ground,
we’ll turn on the engine and drive away.
The day will forget, with its ever-searching eyes,
what it saw in that morning sky.
But the body will remember – as it does
with each kiss, with each touch and scent,
sweet, sweet Texas will whisper her fingertips full of song –
and the birds will sing, and the worms will whine,
and the dew will drip as your senses will rise.

Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, unfit, gifts, sunrise, nets, sea, depths, objects, smiles, tears, cheeks, love, lover, mistress, flowers, verdict, bizarre, refuse, trash, garbage, travelers, exotic, mrburdu

Waiting for a sunrise
Watching the horizon
The moon passes us by
And turns it’s back on me

I can feel it calling
That invisible place
The dark side that holds you
When you’re so far away

Words, they hold no meaning
Here, where the shadows fall
And the stars weep for us
As we all fade away

Down here, where every one
Of their voices cry out,
Pleading for another
Chance, to be whole again

Your smile gives hope
Becomes sunrise each morning
Just more beautiful