Every translator of Tagore eventually meets the same wall: the music.

The meaning crosses easily enough. The sound does not. Bangla vowels are long and open; English closes its doors early.

So you make choices. You let a rhyme go to keep an image. You trade a rhythm for a breath.

And sometimes, rarely, the English finds its own music — not Tagore's, but a cousin of it. Those are the lines worth keeping.