Nirendra Nath Chakraborty

Some words are roaming in the dark in foreign lands,
some flying in the wind,
some words are trapped under stones,
some floating away in the river,
burning, some words are falling silent.

Hemlata,
you gave me your word, I haven't given you mine, yet,
but I haven't given up
hope, yet.

I haven't stopped dragging that illusory net of infatuations
through wind water fire day and night; if I find those rhyming words,
I'll give them only to you. Hemlata,
don't break our home, just yet.
Be patient, I beg you, grant me the alms of just a few more years.
...

[1]
There's moss a little below the surface of the water,
you can see it if you lean just a little;
but she doesn't care to, she's sent her gaze off
in search of the red rose.
I watch, from dawn to dusk I watch
how like estranged love and longing it keeps moving endlessly,
the water moss.

[2]
He who is pierced through his very heart by a five-pronged shaft,
his name is love.
He whose body has turned blue, as if bitten by a cobra,
his name is love.
My Grandma used to say, he who tears away the sun
to light a lamp in a sorrowing hut,
his name is love.
...