Tagore would have agreed : objective reality does not exist without subjective perception of it. Not a leaf falls without some creative grief and compassionate sacrifice involved.

The emerald became green because I willed it so
and the ruby red.
Because I raised my eyes to the sky
the sky blazed up
in the east and the west.
I looked at the rose and said “Beautiful”–
and the rose was beautiful.
“But that’s philosophy,” you say,
“Why don’t you stick to poetry ?”
To which I’ll say, “But this is the truth.
That’s why its poetry.”
Of course I’m proud :
I’m speaking for man.
The World-Maker’s skill
is woven on the fabric of man’s I-ness.
The philosopher chants with every breath–
“No, no, no,
no emerald, no ruby, no light, no rose,
no I, no you.”
But there is the Infinite One deep in sadhana
in the heart of finite man,
saying, “you and I are one.”
In that oneness of you and I darkness and light become one,
rose shape, rose rasa,
no-maya flowered into yes-maya,
in line and colour, in pain and pleasure.
Don’t call this philosophy,
My heart thrills with the joy of creation
as I stand brush and colour-bowl in hand
in the hall of this cosmic-I.

The pundits say :
Look at the old man Moon
smiling his cruel and cunning smile
crawling like a messenger of Death
to the ribs of Earth.
One day he’ll tug at our seas and hills.
A new account will open on the ledger of history
with a huge zero entered by Mahakala Time
erasing past debits like days and nights.
What then of pretentious immortal deeds of man ?
Tidbits of history swallowed
in the black ink of oblivion.
The day man disappears
his eyes will take away all the world’s colours.
The day man disappears
his heart will take away all the world’s rasa.
Then Shakti vibrations alone will energise the sky,
there will no light anywhere.
The musician’s fingers will strum in a veena-less hall
a soundless raga.
A poem-less Creator will sit alone
in a blue bereft sky
lost in the coordinates of a personality-less existence.

Then
in that cosmic mansion
stretching across endless and uncountable reaches
of space upon space of splendid desolation
these syllables will be heard no more–
“You are beautiful,”
“I love you.”

Will the Creator then lapse into sadhana again
for yuga upon yuga ?
On the evening of cosmic dissolution will he chant
“Speak to me ! Speak to me !”
Will he say, “Say ‘You are beautiful’?”
Will he say, “Say ‘I love you’?”