Gitanjali 82

Nâko/By: Rabindranath Tagore

Oras nabala piuta nbi ho ‘nimam nanan, Usî.

Ka nmuî fa tuafes es he nsoî ho menít-sin.

Nenô ma fai nfinin ma oras namfau nasuin

ma nmaknenê onlê hausufâ.

Ho muhín he mpao onmé.

Ho tonnatun es nasoup es

ma naheun hausufâ an-anâ afuit-es.

Hit ka tít fa oras he tanekun,

ma fun ka tmuî fa oras hit musti tasík

he tapein taubsonâ.

Hit a-tmâmuî tâsek’ok he tanekun oras.

Ma onnane fun oras nnao piuta

tomas au ‘fê ani neu amatoes es-es lê nasikan,

ma ho altár luman, ka nok fa ‘tulû a-npoinfin.

Lekâ neno namsoup au ‘manáp

fun umtau ho nesu maëkâ;

me au upein ak oras fê esan.

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Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.

There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom

and fade like flowers.

Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other

perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose,

and having no time we must scramble

for a chance.

We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by

while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,

and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear

lest thy gate be shut;

but I find that yet there is time.

Translated into Dawan by Yohanes Manhitu.