on the grass-land
in-between

cast their shadows

once the folk-song
once the rare cotton

so much sky-kissing blue
are the horses of sunday

with glittering sunshine
on its white sail  

the bird
that has flown from the corn-field
with a rosy balloon on its back

now in the evening of the girl
having her husband alive
the smell of salted turmeric
engrosses the cloth-end

not from so far-end
not in so much noise

coming nearer
in a more whispering voice

the mushroom of the lips
sees its face
in the green of rain-drops

the last tram passes away

the boy
who is the owner of  every parted-kite
sits lonely on the empty bench of the park

and makes it enlightened

in one pocket
he has few pieces of dry breads

in another
the air to play on bamboo-flute

the night is filled with
mushroom

all the shout within the dialogues
gradually becomes weak
and vanishes  

there is no tangle in the
hair

the bier of the hindu-satkar-samiti
runs away
causing a quake in the locality

some needles
small medium and big
are doing their morning-walk

on the thread-line
that is the secret of a phoenix

there are so many pieces of torn paper
into the stone-chips of the broken road

they are of summer
they are of late autumn

beside is the ice-mill
the glow-sign board
attached tightly

the indelible ink
catches the finger of the lemon-grass

the fish-market is also alive and glad

the young minister of state
sends his best wishes
to the handloom-girls

in between
some horn-blowing of the
camels

the labour-strike trembles

the water of dhaleswari-river
has been filled
with the sound of subsistence

The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up  

in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin

it appears there is no interruption
to this circus

the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud

from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa

the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning

all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the  exudation

observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set

for the ripple nearest to the heart
how much cherry-blossoms do you have

when you do swim
to full wings and feathers
the doors and windows of the black timber
do sit

keeping their eyes closed

the metallic rays of light
have to go back
into the blood-circulation of the blue mountain

what do you pray then from the
sea-gulls

is it the voice of the bees

the krishnachura and the champa

both of them
have the only-one unsheathed afternoon

both of them
have the same-one broken harmonium

how long more the eyes of terracotta
would roam in the sun

the uneven fate-line
is written on the green slate

the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent
as if it were some  bare trees of wood-apple

around the swimming
there are some scattered scrapes of slippers

the colour of whose straps
is blue

and some tales of the faded sky

i return home with the night of
phosphorus

i return with those waves of the
mid-night that have no translation

i lay them in order

some light of the former birth
glitters on the hand-fan
made up of palm-leaves

do the child boats of the pigeon-pea flower
go to them to learn the fountain

all over the room
the cobweb of fundamentalist spiders

the toy-train breaks the water colour
to run towards the oil-colour  

and on both sides of its travelling route
there are so many advertisements
of tooth-paste