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