The stars surface above the hills as if from a darkening
Polaroid negative,
The last bird has reached home – purple glow, in Bengal,
it is the cow-dust time.
The dusk hangs between the vertical blinds, like longitudes
I had once to choose from,
where still I cannot go back to look for what I lost
at the day’s beginning.
Happiness is not remembering, not looking for the meaning,
just the middle filling the eye.
(1999)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem