Night, I love you like a bride loving her body, the madman the desert, like the horse loves its shadow, the sad the lighthearted, I love you like a wanderer his ballad, a poet his dark room, like the moon.
They say the Bard's been dead four hundred years; But each time I attend Stratford, He struts upon the stage, Fretting about our human condition, Our foibles and grandness, Like a parent, In the wings.
Dead four hundred years? Don't believe it for a second!
Madame Bela was visibly pleased The classroom was too empty Now I've one to do maths with
No less happy was Auntie Aloka My favorite student is back She lifted me up and said with a kiss So vacant felt my class of English Without a boy from olden times Sweetly singing nursery rhymes
My eyes searched her and before long Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue I'm so glad to see his face Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness
And there he was the only Sir Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher Isn't this the boy never won my trust For always being in every race last
Fifty years haven't changed a bit Either their age or their spirit And surely the fun was doubly more When I stood before the school mirror.