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I experience what I am going through
is a brief spell in my life’s routine course,
a period of small happenings—
Things are running back
To this proximate mind,
aware of each little thing.
I have been calling things
my native own—
steeped with my root nuances
As each small thing has a life.
I’m bound to the sluggish response to my experiences,
Near the bank of Dulong.
I am coming round to my life’s circle
To taste what is my daily own.
(Note: Dulong is the rivulet in Western Medinipur on the bank of which my forefathers settled)
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