No gold coin I have; Do not demand any dower, O my Doe;
If you take, I can give my dowerless two hands.
No self-selling gold I have stored ever; All around everywhere
The cunning frown wounds and hurts me
If you love me, in return I will give my kiss;
I know no other business as I do not know any deception.
If you give your body, you will get mine, too. O my Love,
No capital but body I have, by which I can buy ornaments for you.
If you get nude, you will find me simple; Even no olive-leaves
Will remain there to envelop my virility; If you start tasting,
Please give me a share of those fruits, too; Consciously and
Unconsciously, we will remain ever-known to each other.
Although all my distressed veins and arteries wounded severely,
I am not defeated, O Love; poets don't know how to give in.
Supporting my hands, O my venomous snake, ascend on my mat;
Fold up your hood now, do not compose any black verse on my heart.
How much darkness you can pour out by each of your snaps,
Every moment I become blue more than that in fear of bite.
In which tricks and artifices have you worn the Nilambor sari?
Flowing in drops, the color of night becomes more black.
I think I can jump into that deep darkness should you pick up
My death spreading out the edge of your sari.
Will you permit me to write my name, without any title
And shine, with the scratch of slow trembling nails on your chest?
If you get shy, with my untiring wet kisses I will wipe off
The first letter, the blood-color alphabet, non-Aryan and ancient.
O Kalabati*mine, make the sport of Bengali race wavy, the sport
That Batsayan did not know and knew no girls of the Aryan.
. * Well-versed classical female musician.
Turning round the curve of your neck, come near, O my wild duck;
Uncovering your feathers, give me the ease of your warm body.
I pass my days bowing down to Nature. Today the name of this man
Skillful in words will open the door of ecstasy.
The arrow of Kakka's* words, the command of sylvan soul,
Summons you eighteen times, hear attentively, O my eighteenth.
Untie your closed serpent-plait with your own fingers, then ascend on Dark-blue bed-sheet and getting nude, let us quench our two thirsts.
Making the sound of two violent waters like that of a hungry river,
Let us go to a valley still uncultivated;
Untie all the folds of your body like the soil of a bar;
May the flesh of Ugol fish be happy into your mud.
Moistening all the artistry of pleasure with the lake dye of lips,
Let us sink fast, O Love, into the revolving riddle of blood.
*A small reptile. It is believed that it calls according to its age. That means, if it is eight years old, it will make eight sounds
If you want to visit my shrine, walk slowly, O my pretty Love.
The blood of Mukundaram* is mixed with this soil.
Catching the torn palm-leaves, let us recite his verse;
We do not know how much tears dried on this torn palm-leaves.
Will you come, O wild lass, being the desire of a poet?
Then be aware that the python of poverty is my totem.
Like a fresh murder, I willdraw the vaccine of cinnabar
And the love of a poor man on your red forehead.
Tell me, by which spell of what clan, will I take you
At my home? I have my belief only in Kapila*.
When did Love take refuge in religion or Sanghha*?
Only the grass of a grave remains after all deaths.
You have value as long you possess the copper-colored body;
Nothing exists after that; only the history bursts into laughter.
*A medieval Bengali poet *. Kamdhenu (the fabulous cow that grants all wishes) *A group or community
Have the fruits of cotton-plants exploded beside my home?
Wear the garland of Gunja*, O girl, the fowler of my heart;
Where have you kept the earthen bottle of Mahua*?
Carry that in this moonbeam; let us rinse it down with pleasure.
Who says I won't recognize you in the aboriginal dress of a fowler?
Does a hunter mistake ever to recognize the clan of birds?
By whatever spell, Khana* unraveled the mystery of Nature,
Remember, the same magic lies within the souls of all poets.
I have learnt from the book of Nature since my boyhood,
All-piercing root of Green pierces even love; no everlasting
Society has ever been built anywhere; the fingers of all artists
Of Egypt, Greece and Saracen have failed to do that.
By the strike of Age's plane, all the arts tremble in fear;
O Girl, the lips of a poet are not more painful than that.
*Bunch or cluster of flowers * A flower-tree * A legendary astrologer
I have no faith in Pisces, Girl; I am a man of Kauma society
Who only create the sound of simple equality in your town.
I have never composed a single verse after the name of any chieftain;
I am the poet on whose baldhead the sword of all oppressors hangs.
Long long ago, my ancestors were the slaves of the emperors;
They used to compose the pound of sentences selling their conscience;
That scandal, yet now, hisses in the wind of Bengal;
Alaul*, the rider of the horse of Rosang, hides his face in shame.
Isn't it better to be a poor minstrel who is looking for
The neighbor living in Arshi Nagar*?
Braid my hair today making diadem over my head;
Become my Aktara*, O Love, I would be your young Lalon*.
All the mistakes I made due to the undesired sentiment of devotion,
Today I will rectify them all and create the warbling of new words.
* A great Bengali poet of medieval age* A mystical city mentioned in the songs of Lalon Shah *A musical instrument used by Baul singers.* A great Bengali composer, singer and spiritual leader. Rabindranath was influenced by his songs.
Having lost your gold ear-ring, are you crying, my Love?
The boughs of Anaj*bend down outside in terrible storm;
Is it possible to get back the Jeor* from the hands of a thief?
Perhaps the coquette of the thief has worn that ring now.
The elegant conscience of this country has been eaten into by worms;
Selling the brain, the learned society is happy very much;
How long can the truth be concealed under the lid of civility
When the art of a rebellious poem cries loudly within the soul?
Do not break your bracelet; yet there are some lath of sandalwood
At my home, by which I will fill up the holes of your ears.
In the discourse of Dhrupada*, suddenly I have sung the Kheur*;
Pardon me, O virgin, forgive the songs of this upset cuckoo.
The gold cat drinks all the milk of your bowl-How long will you
Tolerate, O unsteady girl, pretending you have noticed nothing?
*. Green-stuff.*.A kind of ornament.*Classic * Scurrilous poem
The age of Monosa* has touched me in my profound sleep.
A serpent has entered, O Chaste, into the bridal chamber of iron;
After this very night, will we notice ever a new morning
and the sun, the emperor of warmth, which rises everyday?
Getting blue by the rage of venom, my whole body trembles in fear;
O Behula*, lift me up over your body; binding me by your two hands, Embrace tightly, O Chaste; the son of Ebb who blasphemes
Gods and goddesses will lie down on your immersion.
If my life comes to an end for the fraud venom of age,
Start bewailing with your disheveled hair.
Hearing your cry, the life-bird will return breaking the cage of death.
ViewingLife's audacity, may the life-eater Zam* bow down his head.
Rending your dress, O bride, start dancing beside my death;
May the chubby coin of you reverse the system of our living.
* The Goddess of snake *Beloved of Lakhinder whom the snake bit at the bridal chamber *Yama who is responsible for death
Through the flow of ancestry, O proud Love, you have got this verdant
Splendor in your body; Remember, those who once built the city of
Pundra have been the food to Soil. But I did not know that
The roots of Banyan trees always drink the blood of a black nation.
My dwelling is also in the country of red-colored soil.
My forefathers were the pride of Pattikera* city.
The waves of monstrous bush have devoured all.
The praise of Amitava Gautama collideswith the screech of crickets.
In the Past, of whose fear, the Vedic fire of division dared not advance One inch crossing the Karatoa*, have the foundations of their Dwellings been eaten into by the worms of hypocrisy?
The sound of elegant equality frequently goes futile.
The Borgis* are looting paddy fillingthe land with blood and death;
O dark-complexioned bride, crops bring her emore danger than your beauty.
* An ancient Bengali city.*. A river.*Robbers.
The savage have raised their hands by the spell of laborer-equality;
Behold, O Love, peace descends in the country of Hiensung;
Let us stick the badge of Hero on the dresses of those
Who bring the invitation of equality for the workers in Asia.
May the equal distribution of crops be our only religion;
Sing of the extirpation of class, motivated by the spell of
Utmost relief. Pronounce such a speech of love with courage
So that no class-distinction can enter ever into the folk-religion.
After that, if you want to refer to the context of lust, come behind
The concealment of corn-field and uncover the yellow of your youth;
From the side of crops how much love I can give,
I will give you more than that, the cordial affection of coitus.
I have caught your silk-sari with much bashful courage;
Acknowledge me your hero, O my sweet-voiced Love, .
Since boyhood, I hear Bangladesh is the lying-in-room for wise men;
Hundreds of banyan trees are born here during the incessant rain;
See now into that room of wisdom, there hang the depressed bats.
O my amiable Love, how difficult it is to keep faith in the Past!
How will I agree it was the birthplace of Srigyan*
And Shilbhadra* had inhaled the first air from here?
If we exclude its past, it has nothing now mentionable;
Only a few sinanthropous cough in the schools.
Within the last exaltation of this stone-age, where will you flee?
In which bush, O Girl upset, will you hide yourself?
The color of the independent deer prevails in your body too,
When the blades of stones are thrown from behind the curtain;
The existentialist-giraffes have lengthened their individual necks
Into our art-centre and all our workmanship.
* Atish Dipanker, an Bengali Buddhist who visited Tibet getting an invitation from the king of Tibet. *The Chancellor of Nalanda University in ancient India, a Buddhist scholar
Hearing suddenly the sound of high tide at midnight
From the village adjacent to the river, a man gropes
For his beloved wife whether she is beside him
Who opens the door of wealth and corn;
That way, grasp my hand, O Love, in this blind night, full of fear.
If the smell of crops remains in your body,
The enemy of food may bring the ferocious attack of greed;
We will return that panic created by food-greedy Rahu*.
As a peasant of upland, who eats his food standing in water,
Establishes his utmost right on the newly risen bar,
That way I have hoisted the flag of justice over your head;
The flag of mine, bright colored, is firm both in kindness and right.
Behold, the northeast is trembling in fear by the ear-splitting thunder;
Swearing by the name of storm, tell me, O Girl, whom are you of?
* A demon said to be the cause of eclipses
Open two eyes, O beautiful bride, reddened by the odor of Loban*,
The two designed borders of your sari tremble by my breath;
When did the sylvan pigeon bend down with shyness?
You are trembling as if you were the root of a cane fallen in storm.
Your chignon has been unloosed in wind, O the smiling girl. Behold,
Crossing your Tikli*, my heart palpitates in fear. All the villagers are Waiting for you, having paddy in their auspicious winnowing platters; the Khai* of Binni* are spread on the yard; Attar* and Aguru* on bed.
Having accepted this lucky Dhan-durba* with reverence, loosening Your Purdah*, O my noble Love, put up again your hair into a bun.
Your sisters-in-law of your age have caught the threshold, coming to you;
Be simple like them and listen to the first Sabak* of your family.
All the women from my mother's side have gathered to welcome you As a bride; O Girl, say 'Kobul! Kobul! '*like the waves of a river
* Benzene *One kind of ornament used on the forehead of a woman * Food made of rice frying on the oven * A kind of paddy *A kind of perfume * A kind of fragrant wood *. A kind of grass * Borkha * Lesson.* I agree
For rain's sake, O Bibi, * for the sesame-colored paddy's sake,
For the sake of fish and meat and for the sacred milch animals';
For plough, yoke and scythe's sake, for the sake of windy sail,
Believe me, no poet neglects the religion of heart.
If I ever profane my tongue breaking my promise,
May you turn into the blade of lightning;
Rending my heart, may your divorce fall upon my head,
And give me no piece of fish for my health.
Which way the innocent waves break down
On the body of a water-bird floating in the night's river,
Likewise, I will incessantly pour out all my kisses
On your body setting you free from the chain of coyness.
If anything happens opposite, O Banu, * for the mother tongue
And love-poetry's sake, may your curse fall upon my head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem