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