"tagore" poems
The furthest distance in the world
Is not between life and death
But when I stand in front of you
Yet you don’t know that
I love you
The furthest distance in the world
Is not when i stand in font of you
Yet you can’t see my love
But when undoubtedly knowing the love from both
Yet cannot
Be together
The furthest distance in the world
Is not being apart while being in love
But when plainly can not resist the yearning
Yet pretending
You have never been in my heart
The furthest distance in the world
Is not
But using one’s indifferent heart
To dig an uncrossable river
For the one who loves you
by Rabindranath Tagore (7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
I see you there
suspended for a time
between the shadow
and the light.
You look pale
but peaceful,
in a dream state.
I rest awhile,
a shallow sleep,
then I awake
knowing…
without words
my mind whispers
it’s time
I gently wipe your lips,
brush a stray hair
from your forehead.
It’s all I know to do.
Then I sing
a cherished lullaby
hoping you hear me
hoping it wraps you in love
as my arms wrapped
around you
as a child.
I hold your hand,
kiss your forehead.
In that instant I see
and feel all you’ve been
all that is you
tiny wrinkled infant
delightful, smiling six-month old
curious toddler
proud school age
struggling teen
loving adult
realizing
we're losing all of these,
all that you've been
all that is you
then
I feel your spirit leave…
for that brief moment
I’m overcome with a calm
I can’t describe.
A gift rare and precious –
as I was there
when you entered the world
I was with you
when you left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough."
Rabinadrath Tagore
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
Transliteration:
Jana-gaṇa-mana adhināyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhātā
Pañjāba Sindhu Gujarāṭa Marāṭhā
Drāviḍa Utkala Baṅga
Vindhya Himāchala Yamunā Gaṅgā
Uchhala jaladhi taraṅga
Tava śubha nāme jāge
Tava śubha āśhiṣa māge
Gāhe tava jaya gāthā
Jana gaṇa maṅgala dhāyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhāta
Jaya he, jaya he, jaya he
Jaya jaya jaya, jaya he.
Translation:
Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people,
Dispenser of India's destiny.
Thy name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sindhu,
Gujarat and Maratha,
Of the Dravida and Odisha and Bengal;
It echoes in the hills of the Vindhyas and Himalayas,
mingles in the music of Yamuna and Ganges and is
chanted by the waves of the Indian Ocean.
They pray for thy blessings and sing thy praise.
The saving of all people waits in thy hand,
Thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, victory, victory to thee.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
"O poor, unthinking human heart! Error will not go away, logic and reason are slow to penetrate. We cling with both arms to false hope, refusing to believe the weightiest proofs against it, embracing it with all our strength. In the end it escapes, ripping our veins and draining our heart's blood; until, regaining consciousness, we rush to fall into snares of delusion all over again." Rabindranath Tagore , The Postmaster
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffee ***
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Whaley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
"It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,"
she says, "that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love."
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat, lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
By Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.
4.9k
To thank each one of you,
Today, I take the opportunity,
By taking names for your support.
For being the source,
First of all, I thank Life,
For the inspiration she was.
She guided me to Hello Poetry,
Introduced me to new friends,
Broke up ultimately however.
Then I thank Timothy Salter,
For his own and his family's,
Articulate poetry helped me.
Madam Hilda writes as amazing,
And as amazing is their daughter,
It is hard to tell if Marian wrote it.
It's helping me learn more,
Respecting it has taught me,
Had to be paid to earn more.
Not forgetting Gitacharya Vedala,
For he elaborates on every detail,
Thereby helping me experiment.
Same is for Pradip Chattopadhyay,
Hinting of Rabindranath Tagore,
He's the poet clad in sombrero.
Their pure physics at soul poetry,
Helped me learn experimenting,
With sheer hollow truthfulness
I then engage in remembering,
Elsa Angelica for inspiring me,
Her own poetry is developing.
She inspired me to improve,
My strengths & weaknesses,
She taught me being lucid.
Then of course I thank Sukeerti,
She taught me being beautiful,
Without being too explaining.
She encouraged my writing,
Always was their as a friend,
Giving me her positive inputs.
Madam Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Squires,
Aptly mature her poetry is always,
Very much to learn always exists.
Her persona is respectable,
Definitely motherly her aura,
Making her a poet so reputable.
Several other poets fascinate me,
Equally instead of less or more,
They all teach me the lessons.
Madam Sally A Bayan is there,
Her sweet mature bits of advice,
Best complemented by her poetry.
Shayana Shrikanthalingam,
Seeing all her polished poetry,
Not such a difficult name for me.
Ever inseparable they are,
Brandon & Earl Jane Nagley,
They are the immortal lovers.
And I recognize the beauty,
An Indian model here on H.P.,
Poetry surely as cute as herself.
She is the most elegant girl,
On Hello Poetry and in reality,
Bhumika Fulwani I refer to here.
Finally, I express my gratitude to her,
In my life she's the ultimate one,
Now I needn't anyone else.
She is my Pooja Shah,
She is exclusively mine,
She is here forever to stay.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.
Originally published by The Chained Muse. My translation is based on an untitled text in Bangla (Bengali) first published in 1912 and known as "60" due to its numerical placement. Tagore made history by becoming the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. Keywords/Tags: seashore, gathering, children, sky, sea, water, dance, sand castles, shells, boats, play, nets, swim, fish, pearls, ships, waves, songs, mother, lullaby, baby, cradle, tempests, death
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
*"A mind all logic is like a knife all blade.
It makes the hands bleed that uses it. "*
~Rabindranath Tagore
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
In the beginning there was Shakespeare
with his worldly verse that let me fly
betwixt the Merchant and the Shrew
a flame was set alight
and it grew and bore
testimony to an increasing love for the music of the mind
Tagore came later
with more a serious thought a distant father
to my immaturity
undulating spirit that within me lay
inspired
Always thought I’d grow up and be like Plath
Or like Dorothy Parker
always in some dark corner
trying on all the mental dresses
my imagination supplied
powerful black and pungent hues
tears that no one cried
confessions which became
accusations
self-effacing in my pride
then I found e.e.cummings
that tricky wonderful guy
who weaved puzzles into his poems
such spell-binding joy!
I am become Ekalavya
from absent teachers i have learnt
to string my voice together
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
31.08.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 8:14 AM UTC
Stillness
Moments stood still
silent; never wavering
like how eyes sometimes do
I too am still
standing, falling, shrinking
deceptive like the moon
there then not there
shining bright
then dark as night
When moments stand still
I am reminded
that what may be
may not
________________________________
There is a point where in the mystery of existence contradictions meet; where movement is not all movement and stillness is not all stillness; where the idea and the form, the within and the without, are united; where infinite becomes finite, yet not”
-Rabindranath Tagore
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
***The raindrop whispered to the jasmine,
“Keep me in your heart for ever.”
The jasmine sighed, “Alas,” and dropped to the ground.***
(237 Stray Birds by Rabindranath Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore was born in Calcutta, India, on May 7, 1861. He is the author of many poetry collections, including Gitanjali: Song Offerings (Macmillan, 1913), which received the Nobel Prize in Literature. He died on August 7, 1941.)
<>
Alas
some words of note get overlooked,
their usage to the wayside,
this is life, forever updating its profile
Alas!
none of us, do not lie,
issue this all encompassing sigh,
this shaded heart rendering, un cri du coeur
this, to remind us:
a single warring word,
falls wounded, forgotten,
telling of impossibilities
lost love, a broken conjunction,
what was that can never be,
what never was and yet not impossible
someday
Alas! Alas!
a single word poem,
that answers so many things,
and still in its regretting
is a niche of untold hopeful perhaps
write me a word like that
your fame, if that’s all you desire,
alas,
is assured...
Alas!
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
All lines are controversial
Average performance is extremely intelligent,
My answer to the riddle is this God never wrote fables
In the bible, Qur’an, Gita, Ramayana, Dini ya Musambwa
Nor anything you will mention that amount to mankind's
Mental peregrinations in search for God.
Jewish literature in the form of the bible
Is strongly successful as a misleading literature
And firmly founded in racial prejudice.
Similarly the Qur'an is Arabic adjustment
Of Jewish literature in the bible.
The Apocryphal of them all is enigmatic.
The sons of Asia are dangerously gifted in literature
And their epics often form religion, think of Tagore’s poem
That became Indian nation anthem,
Karl Marx's das kapitel that became revolutionary religion
Blue print or even Gautama's sermons recited by Jesus Christ
Six hundred years later as a sermon on the mountain.
Now; to me Asians must stop racial chauvinism
And accept humanity as there are very many human beings
Who are living away from Jerusalem and are prosperous
Both economically and spiritually, take a case of Vatican.
In my faith therefore, God himself
will give Jerusalem to African immigrants in Palestine and Israel,
Because Abraham was a refugee in Africa,
Ishmael was born in Africa; Jesus was a refugee in Africa
And even a Libyan; Simon the Cyrene helped him
To carry the ominous Roman cross, doen to Calvary
Thus, Christianity is founded on the innocent misery of an African race.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Though monetary wise,
It doesn't promise to pay
I craft poems everyday,
For instance say
'Why my dream object,
To affections mine
Is adamant to reciprocate!'
The other way round,
Though to acquaintances
Absurd, it may sound,
Some, I have to spend
My poems to newspapers
Magazines and
Websites to send!
For love of the labour,
I will never
Letup the endeavour!
There is a
Great deal of satisfaction
From sitting hours,
To put words into action,
Racking brain
And stretching imagination,
From the earth's core and crust
To the sky and firmament!
At night, when all is quiet,
Till I hit the nail
Right on the head,
I will not repair to bed!
Reading poems
Has satisfaction
No less, for it affords,
Handshakes,with poets
Of all ages,
Poets with poems
Of all colour shades.
Probably the works
Of Shakespeare
That we hold dear!
What is more,Tagore.
In my duties
I will be remiss,
If I forget mention
Savo,Anna Akmatova,
Sara Teasdale
And Salomeja Neris.
Till getting a cherished corner
www.Allpoetry.com
www.poetrypoems.com
www.poemhunters.com
www.hellopoetry.com
www.writeoutloud.com
www.novelcollective.com
Ecstatic I was never!
Now I peruse the websites
Of contemporary poets,
Displaying poetical prowess!
I want to add of course
An east African voice!
Out, a poem to digest
One could make a descent
Into wisdom's pit,
So poem virgins
Why don't you go for it?
From my experience,
For uplifting poems
'Start with Helen Steiner Rice!'
It is my advice.
'It is by the brow of one's sweat
One could paint
The future with
A rosy pink,
Don't you think?
Sitting idle,
Dreaming a rose-bed
Is quite absurd!'
Reversing such mind set
Go for targets set!
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
Within this solitude,
I have grown in ways I never knew possible.
I have delved deeper into the caverns
of each chamber
of this sacred abode
we call the Heart,
and discovered there is no end..
It is a perpetually incessant journey.
I continue to swim,
propelled through this bloodstream, ~ this heart’s dream..
my tears becoming one with the ocean
within the vessel that carries me forth.
Guided by a gentle hand, the inward immersion continues..
It is dark.. warm..
it envelopes me.
I cannot see .. rather I feel,
moving by the sight of faith.
There is safety in this sanctuary,
the guiding hand a cord,
the darkness a soothing, protective womb.
I inhale deeply –
as I hear the voice whisper:
everything is allegory
pain is a sculptor (it keeps us upright)
love is a painter (his brush divinely guided)
lust is a cello… (but what good is an instrument without a song to sing?)
and I am ecstatically transported to Tagore:
“*I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument
while the song I came to sing remains unsung*.”
I exhale cathartically –
Releasing..
It seems an eternity between the inhale ~ and the exhale..
a lifetime between each breath.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.
This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.
Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.
Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.
When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...
How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?
With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.
“This Dog” appeared in the poetry collection Arogya by Rabindranath Tagore. Keywords: Tagore, translation, dog, feet, head, caress, caressing, joy, delight, devotion, friendship, companion, companionship, whole, being, entire, instinct, loveworthiness, mrburdu
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 10:54 PM UTC
Faith is a troubled word in muddy
clothes, walking with the unthinking,
the enraged, the **** tube prophets
Still: I believe a few things, like
that You exist
that You reward the seeker
that the greatest anything is love,
You always did say that:
'Love each other, love Me'
Faith reveals the invisible
hope which lifts sunken eyes to
Love
which is the only redemption
in the burning streets
of a condemned world.
Choosing a love ethic means knowing
you are connected
to every other life
and even to eternity
which Tagore describes
as the place where nothing can vanish:
no hope
no happiness
no vision of a face seen through tears
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.
Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, mother, cannot, remember, cradle, temple, sky, gaze, face, play, playing, playthings, toys, melody, song, tune, lullaby, singing, rocking, autumn, flowers, fragrance, odor, perfume, incense, blue, heaven, heavens, mrburdu
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 12:09 AM UTC
Love is an endless mystery,
for it has nothing else to explain it.
Rabindranath Tagore.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I sleep on a bed made
with tears .
I hug the pillow stuffed
with thorns .
Yet I open
doors to
another dawn…
my senses
seeking
your touch
your scent
your feel
and strangely…..
I begin to breathe.
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
Though monetary wise,
It doesn't promise to pay
I craft poems everyday,
For instance say
'Why my dream object,
To affections mine
Is adamant to reciprocate!'
The other way round,
Though to acquaintances
Absurd, it may sound,
Some, I have to spend
My poems to newspapers
Magazines and
Websites to send!
For love of the labor,
I will never
Letup the endeavor!
There is a
Great deal of satisfaction
From sitting hours,
To put words into action,
Racking brain
And stretching imagination,
From the earth's core and crust
To the sky and firmament!
At night, when all is quiet,
Till I hit the nail
Right on the head,
I will not repair to bed!
Reading poems
Has satisfaction
No less, for it affords,
Handshakes,with poets
Of all ages,
Poets with poems
Of all color shades.
Probably the works
Of Shakespeare
That we hold dear!
What is more,Tagore.
In my duties
I will be remiss,
If I forget mention
Savo,Anna Akmatova,
Sara Teasdale
And Salomeja Neris.
Till getting a cherished corner
www.hellopoetry.com
www.allpoery.com
www.writeoutloud.com
www.novelcollective.com
www.poemhunter.com
www.poetrypoems.com
Ecstatic I was never!
Now I peruse the websites
Of contemporary poets,
Displaying poetical prowess!
I want to add of course
An east African voice!
Out, a poem to digest
One could make a descent
Into wisdom's pit,
So poem virgins
Why don't you go for it?
From my experience,
For uplifting poems
'Start with Helen Steiner Rice!'
It is my advice.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
He feels and writes like he has the heart of Ganesh,
With his mind I want to have an exchange, enmesh,
A flower with love's light imbued,
Conjures word, makes it spirit's food,
This is his time, all time is his,
O Beauty, I beg you, tell me how do you see the world like this?
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:19 AM UTC
though strictly Fermi, and oh...(en Rico) plus sun
dre other parvenues, a rapture
surges thru me,
when audibly communicating, enunciating,
and speaking English words
as if hi ken run
a marathon, or zip to the moon,
(take as cheesy tong in cheek)
from this pun
gent, who relishes reading for my eyes and ears
asper myself, which purported nun
sense ink reese sees learn'n
den earn an award,
especially wash'n black board
den breathing intelligent dust
from eraser head could awk cord,
I utter Hieronymus Bosch, bing enamored,
and aye actually confess
tubby a model United Nations chimp
pan zee, and/or other
type of survey monkey hook can huff ford
Old Rotten Gotham horde
sliding down into the behavioral sink...
exclaiming "oh me jack lord"
and getting rescued then getting less on,
sans get'n taut how (muss elf George Eliot)
tubby comb moored
flossed, milled, and taut
tubby trained for Operation Ready Date
by a coop pull oof oot standing chap,
named Adam West, who poured
salty epithets (reminding me, as they roared
that life iz brutal, short and nasty),
part tickly ne'r the end
wharf hew scored
and majority got de toured
until emotionally, physically,
and spiritually enlightened
By Rabindranath Tagore and Burt Ward.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
Gitanjali 35
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been divided by narrow domestic walls;
Where words emerge from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not been lost amid the dreary desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, mind, fear, head, held, high, knowledge, free, world, narrow, walls, words, depths, truth, perfection, reason, habit, thought, action, heaven, Father, awake, mrburdu
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:27 PM UTC