Paper boats

Sounds a bit idealistic.
But it is just an inner explosion of believing in the miracle of the Universe. Each butterfly's wing flutter triggers a response. If I decide to hide in the shadow or wander on the paths of the forest that's still a choice. That still triggers an effect.
Lately, I felt empty. Tired of building paper boats and making the float in the blue waters. Trying again and again just to see them smashed onto the rocks, drawn by the currents. I am on the verge of giving up. A sort of breaking point. Still, a mysterious voice is telling me: one might succeed despite the bitterness of the past boats. And even if that voice becomes muted for a while, I see myself as for above, folding a paper. For when the time will come. And the waters will be silvery and calm. I think it's called hope.
 But lately I confuse words. I take words for what they are not.
I might even one day try to fold the water and make it part of a paper. That's how tired I am.

Do you know this Rabindranath Tagore poem? I found it just now when I was searching for a paper boat image. I guess the Universe is mumbling something back.