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