when this endless anchal of dhanekhali sari
continues to make dip-swimming
in the bottomless water of the paddy

and if into the colour of her fore-finger
enters repeatedly some whole-noons of the chot-boshekh

and from the more depth of the ceiling-fan
comes out the ordour of the open-hair of the village-orange

then with that lac-saliva wouldn’t an easy pandel
be constructed on the roof

its water will be made begin as well
that white cloud … that life of this concrete …

beforehand to it … with a garland of flowers of the sun-plant  
around her neck… let her be seated on this branch of peepul branch… for once  

taking the warmth of the kites flown after having a thread-cut
let the cows of man be productive by a few inch more