Millions of miles from home In the darkness before the dawn In the swirling of this storm When I'm rolling with the thunder But bleed from thorns Leave a light, a light on.
These were autumn mornings, the time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. — Rabindranath Tagore, The Cabuliwallah
