1. when the morning sets in with the sun rising in the east i put on the dress of a beggar extended up to the horizon and the canto of my begging starts
i beg beside the big-bazar beside the fly-over beside the college-campus beside the cow-market
you then put your elbow on the body of the day giving a perfect and unbiased pose to attached to the album of life
people of the working-class spread hither and thither to write some more decimal fraction on the notebook of life
2. in the dusts and soil of rural-bengal in the testament written by the grass i am a son of the immortal
my begging-bowl is the most favourite go-ahead of a alone man
then speaking around are the chop singara aluposta
and the love-story of a hyacinth blooming in the pond blind by mud
also in the overflowed dustbin of the city waiting rightly with an erected head the excitement of your absence
3. coming to this canto of begging do you know i enjoy both your intensity and your sharpness
your secret current flows me to the pore of the skin of the body of the puller of a hand-barrow your cold attracts me towards the syllabus of waning moonlight
i do realise now that the stale afternoons saved in my pocket stitched so many new muscles with my vocal chord
and i’m howling in joy…
4. what’s an enjoyment… hahaha…day after day spending too much chaos and living to so little extent tell me is it the least
within the left-over on the leaf-plates after eating by the baboos i can discover more and more love
the mango tree the grass-hopper my begging-bowl and from the tune of the laxmi-panchali coming from the middle-class houses listen, how flourishing is my mother-tongue
5. all long the day i beg
i beg rice pulses oil salt royal blood
in exchange i also distribute peace… peace… and peace…
and the horses of the gypsies making a dip-swimming in the peace-water
in the canto of my begging holding a whole body of love i learn how to be burnt by the shadow of the trees
i give up all my courage to book a room in your youth only for me
6. going upstairs on the railway foot-bridge i see the strong light of neon-lamps
the girl from the avtar of the flex induced trance
the aroma of chhatim-flower in the air and the song of a blind-beggar with tambourine
those neon-light flex-women beggar’s-song and flower odour i see they are all alive in the canto of my begging
under the evening-star
7. in the canto of my begging at the day’s end the moon that rises behind the rain-tree
i put up in her hands the lemon-leaves the water-balloons the goal-kicks that i have had throughout the day by begging
and i beg from her the magic-wand by the touch of which the date-palm that was someday burnt by a thunder-bolt in front of the church looks very infatuating
and my dress as a beggar gradually becomes a royal-dress