At a slightly slothful pace
A silent man quietly walks across the meadows
His autumn passes by mostly propped on two legs
With a mouthful of still shadow of a plough and ox.
To his own water, the Bhagirathi is a close relative.
He responds to none from his secret den.
A magpie robin whistles out of mind-
cold from the earth's last afternoon
perched on the roof of a post-mortem cell.
Whose corpse was it? Who dissected?
Why the world today bleeds so much?
The violin goes on playing the chorus.
Twilight though, the rustic man walks as if basking in the sun
Nonexistent, yet a woman becomes visible.
When the magpie blows away the dissected corpse
I can feel the advent of a primordial magpie.
[Translated by Faizul Latif Chowdhury]
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Comments about this poem (A Magpie by Jibanananda Das )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(c. 600 BCE)
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