Banalata Sen

For thousand years I’m wandering on this planet's pathways,
from Ceylon Sea in the night's dark to the Malay Sea
traveled I have a lot; in the dusky world of Bimbisara-Ashoka
there I was; far away in the dark in the town of Bidarbha;
a weary soul that I am, life’s sea foam surrounding me,
was presented a moment’s peace by Banalata Sen of Natore.
Her hair’s the night of bygone dark Bidisha,
her face Srabasti’s artwork; in the distant sea
the way a sailor who’s lost his trace breaking his rudder
sees the green grassland inside the cinnamon-island,
likewise I saw her in the dark; “Where were you all this time?” she asked,
raising her birdnest-like eyes – Banalata Sen of Natore.

At the day’s end, like the whisper of the dew
descends the evening; the kite wipes from its wings the sun's smell;
When all hues of the earth subside, the manuscript calls for
the sparkling color of fireflies for the story’s sake;
all birds return home – all rivers – settle all accounts of this life;
only darkness remains, to sit across Banalata Sen.