| |
Woeful town, if your wish I ever could grant,
A tiny river may well be all you’ll want,
Whose tears perhaps would wash your smouldered soul,
And make the night stars snuggle up close and loll,
Quivers in hardened, frozen shadows it’d arouse
And turn them into a miracle’s fleeting spouse.
The mirthless town has lost track of the date
She had a river. A drain today’s her mate.
Woeful town, perchance if your needs I probed,
For a cloud or two you might have just implored,
Your grimy sky the clouds would partly screen,
With kindness blend the scorching sunrays’ sheen,
Timid longings perched on the wings of a kite
Rubbed by the softness of clouds they’d go on a flight.
The mirthless town can’t recall the time anymore
When in mires it lost the clouds that used to soar.
Original in Bengali by Premendra Mitra
|
