The one who plants trees
Knowing that he will never
Sit in their shade
Has at least
Started to understand
The meaning of life
I read these few lines
As I sat on a cool station platform
On a sweltering night in East India
All the benches had been taken
So I leaned against my tired rucksack
And watched the frequent expresses
Scream through the dull quiet station
My Indian friend had given me a book of Tagore’s poetry
So that I might pass the time between trains and cities
Whether I would ever plant a tree
Under which others might rest
Was a question that I was unable to answer
But I knew that I had left my footprints
Throughout India and in the memories
Of those who had met me