'Who plays the flute?'

Who plays the flute in me?
Who fills me with,
mirth and melancholy?
Why the tune of flowers on bloom,   
fills my soul's little room?
Why does the breeze flow,   
in such a way, so much perfumed?
Why is this abrupt rise,     
Of a desire  in my eyes?
Why my words do take the form,  
Of a curious fiery oath?
Why is there a flood of scriptures,
In my heart, breaking forth?
Why is there such a dare
Of words long confined, to come out bare?

(Note: it is a transliteration of poem, from Collected works of Rabindranath Tagore, Birth centenary edition, vol.4,pg 312)

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