The Wench Evening Of The Indus Poem by Soumen Chattopadhyay

Smearing last sunshine of the afternoon, birds are returning
To own nest; in remote space, spreading out kiss
Loving the past tune of lament, they come back
To weave the blood-seed dream on the bamboo tree with fallen leaves

With astonishment, I see this scene of peace in the dark of evening
In the tunnel, too old, my bloody worn-out thread
Looks for himself— the whole night, in the forest of winter
In the mountain of clouds, then breaking all the silence
The evening of the Indus as a young lady, plays the creeper anklet
In me; inside the cave, I can remember
Your virgin face, covered with dark fog
In our village filled with jungle smell of old soil
In the water of disrespectful isle,
with the little cormorant and the Indian myna
One day, we've spent the night of many centuries
Today, the lineaments of that night-women Pierce
Inside the head, the generation floats in this dark
The Rocky River and the crop field are sad; the sky is in the sky

Here, in my morphine-night, in the body-extracts
The exiled blood worms get freedom in the old existence
From the colorful crowd, I run in my grave
Here my solitary heart in the dark
Wake up on your virgin wild face