16.Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the
record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of _henna_
is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your
garland of flowers in unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like
praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening
again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet
useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no
shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not
raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the
wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

Rabindranath Tagore (The Gardener)