When the night was swamping him with epileptic frame
he was walking without limbs.
The awakening was painful.
Drinking his own blood breaking his own bones.
This largesse was tempting.
No guaranteed death, you will live with grenades.
Grief was priceless.
Only nightingale will exercise for the fallen miracles.
He declared at incendiary pyre
to become a phoenix which never was.
It was an ethical question to laugh or to weep.
Man was made unmade.
Satishji, I loved your poem. I shall try to translate (transliterate, really) in Baanglaa. If I publish the translated version in my poetry magazine, to share with my friends, I hope you will not mind?
