October 30, 2016

When The Seven Stars Bloom

When the seven stars bloom in the sky, on this grass
I sit still; like a dead star starfruit-red clouds 
inside the bay waves have sunk  – descends a quiet, obedient
Bengal's twilight-blue evening – as if a long-haired lass appears in the sky:
On my face, on my eyes float her hairs;
no path on this earth has seen her   never seen such
countless hairs' kisses fall on mango-pine, jackfruit, rose-apple ceaselessly,
never known such pleasant fragrance drip from a beauty's tresses.

On some earth's way: the fragrance of soft paddy – the essence of 
water-spinach, duck's plumes, arrow, pond water, 
glassy fish and olive barb's mild smell, 
lassie's rice-washing wet hand – that cold hand, lad-trampled nutgrass, 
the jaded silence of the red banyan fruit's saddened fragrance   amidst these
when the seven stars bloom in the sky, Bengal's soul I feel. 


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