WHERE the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed,
The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
There is nothing as joy or sorrow to hold them back. They are but folk singers, wandering singers. Music is their passion and wandering is their life-style. They move from towns to towns, forests to forests, villages to villages. Where the night will spend, none can say it.
Wandering Singers is all about the folk singers and artistes of India and their troupes wnadering through the forest tracts and the streets, singing of some battle lost or some tragedy befallen.
i am in 6th class and this poem is in my book it is a lovely gorgeous beautiful poem ever i have listen its lines are heart touching
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very touchy lines especially the last two lines