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.