I passed the thronging Gariahat market each day,
There were quite a few comrades on that very road; but only one seemed acquainted to me
A florist; whom I would survey.
He held a basket of red, lucid, hibiscus flowers as I could see for wee.

The drastic smile reminded me of old Grand-dad.
The alluring gleam in his hazel eyes remarked despondency.
I wanted to confide to the hard working lad,
That he isn't alone, and sing him a strain, melancholy.

His smile was blemished.
His bony hand could not hold the basket for a prolonged time,
And I thought his wounds must be replenished.
My contemplative eye would be abstracted by the tram's chime.

Once, on the night of May
When I thought he was endowed with glee,
To him, I lost my way
For sleeping pills vanquished me.

I stood there like a woebegone,
In reminiscence of my inamorato
As the funeral carriages were drawn,
I weeped while that naked smile on me, would bestow.