'If she were to roast you alive in fire?'
Effortless death's all I'll desire
'If to the top of clouds she lifts you then?'
Into raindrops I'll splinter, sheer droplets of rain
'And if she chooses to grind you into dust?'
Keep on flying wayward then I must
'Fly? Well, if she clips your wings to size?'
Falling, I'll catch her branch, I surmise
'If she throws you off her branch, wretched fool?'
What choice? Embracing her alone I'll keep my cool
Should I say more, Inquisitor, have you warnings still?
'Oh get off and enjoy lifelong agony to your fill!'
Translation of a Bengali poem by Joy Goswami