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
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.
