When the first rain of Baisakh brought the smell of fire-
I cross the Satmukhi lake to smell it;
The so-called pundits giggle staring at each other.
The whole body inundated by flood -
Rubbing the Super Moon spreads the rays of light;
By moth-jumping it registers its name in the martyr's list.
The so-called pundits smile through gritted teeth.
If the old love gets nostalgic-
Forgetting her huff-
The ex-lover becomes ready to kiss me
Returning to her sprouted youth of twenty.
As a gift when I give her my poetry manuscript of-
One thousand three hundred and forty two years old
The so-called pundits tying my hands and feet in joy
Throw me into the stream of the Mahananda.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem