A tiny poem by Rabindranath Tagore (I forgot the name of the poem) was going round and round in my head for the past few days. Here is its translation by me.
When the storm comes rushing into the spring fest,
The buds are not scared by it, young leaves laugh in jest.
Only the withered leaf knows the storm’s character;
The storm is but his liberator, what does he have to fear?
That's all I could write today, on his 146th birthday, owing to the tremendous workload at the office. Hopefully a proper post will follow soon.