A hundred years from today
who are you, sitting, reading a poem of mine,
                under curiosity’s sway -
           a hundred years from today?

                Not the least portion
of this young spring’s morning bliss,
           neither blossom nor birdsong,
                nor any of its scarlet splashes
           can I drench in passion
                and despatch to your hands
                a hundred years hence!

Yet do this, please: unlatch your south-faced door,
            just sit at your window for once;
basking in fantasy, eyes on the far horizon,
                figure out if you can:
            how one day a hundred years back
roving delights in a free fall from a heavenly region
            had touched all that there was -
the infant Phalgun day, utterly free,
               was frenzied, all agog,
while borne on brisk wings, the south wind
               pollen-scent-brushed
had suddenly arrived and in a flash dyed the earth
               with all youth’s hues
            a hundred years before your day.

There lived then a poet, ebullient of spirit,
               his heart steeped in song,
who wanted to open his words like so many flowers
               with so much passion
            one day a hundred years back.

            A hundred years from today
                    who is the new poet
whose songs flow through your homes?
                    To him I convey
            this springtime’s gladsome greetings.
May my vernal song find its echo for a moment
                    in your spring day
in the throbbing of your hearts, in the buzzing of your bees,
                 in the rustling of your leaves
           a hundred years from today.