I don't know how I, at this midnight, have become
having all my existence within me, as if they were
a pair of twin bees
sitting abreast on the tepid flesh.
Darkness walks both on my consciousness and
Quick-shivering feelings of mine like the tongue of
run away touching the shed of my blood. It seems
melancholic parting moment of a boy has been
attached to all my senses. Affection of my mother
being the warm fragrant vapour
of my last food-plate collides with my nose.
Adieu, O Sight .O the born blind Past, don't come
O the trees, my dwelling house and river, be dark
and disappear like the songs of birds into the deep
While walking ashore, suddenly I notice on the
the body of Day turning into a globe of light.
Making sonorous sound of bathing at the staircase
someone says to her companion,'See yonder a little
penetrating the deep fog.How can a mother send
her child outside
in a morning of Magha
cold such as? Walking
alone into fog---
what a sight ! '
My observation of birds' flying and the day behind
turns to be something more than play. Sweat grows
on my smooth forehead .Dust gathers on knees.
By raising hands, it's not possible now to hide the
Being lofty, the god of Day has ascended the
The sound of water makes me realise that it's the
sport of bathing.
The village girls, surrounding the wharf, say to one
showing me, `Who's that guy? Which vllage is he
To some beautiful lady perhaps!'
When thirst dies, sweat becomes dry by the wind.
At last the birds of pastureland, exchanging eyes
with one another,
fly away with their ruddy wings.
I feel tired. No sorrow, no solicitation, no thirst
drives me more.
Even I don't know which wharf I have reached
Having eighteen pitchers on waists, the village
wives go back home.
Someone of them says in intense tune,
'Who knows where this old passer-by will go
crossing the dark bog?'
[Translated by Sayeed Abubakar from Sonali Kabin]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem