the season-change of the vagrant pole-star easily picks up a sip  
from the list of ducks of the night-watchers

standing on the bye-lane of the horse-race … by the weight of the confession made
by the spelling-mistakes of a moonlit night to the lotus-leaves … the amputated
tongues of the night-bulbs gradually rolls down to the banyan-pods of the side-characters

the sharp archer of the star-apple moves away some furlongs from the usual
word-stairs and swallowed a whole grammar with fumes  by spoon

thus with the number of velocity-poems that the punjabi with boutique prints
can produce… or will produce … gluttonous flower-vase of the magic-painter
can make cool the slaughter-ground … spread to the horizons of the krishnachura  
that is deviated from its own track

the krishnachura and the champa

both of them
have the only-one unsheathed afternoon

both of them
have the same-one broken harmonium

how long more the eyes of terracotta
would roam in the sun

the uneven fate-line
is written on the green slate

the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent
as if it were some  bare trees of wood-apple

around the swimming
there are some scattered scrapes of slippers

the colour of whose straps
is blue

and some tales of the faded sky

i return home with the night of
phosphorus

i return with those waves of the
mid-night that have no translation

i lay them in order

If, in the golden Bengal,
At the crack of dawn,
The rainbow from beyond the skies
Gently alights upon the wings of a butterfly,
Smiling all the while

Then what shall befall
As the day softly wanes,
In the twilight beneath the veiling horizon,
When evening tenderly embraces the earth?

Wandering all day through the villages of Bengal,
Across the vast wetlands, fields of rice,
From door to door, along the wild paths,
Through shaded groves and verdant forests

Amidst the gaps of flaming Krishnachura trees,
On that very path,
The midday red fairy peeks through with a playful glance.

The dark Mathura clouds paint the sky,  
As the graceful Giriya ducks spread their wings,  
The vermilion-touched woodpeckers tap away

While the sunbirds sing their melodies,  
By the edge of the waterlily lake, beneath the banyan tree,  
A contented farmer's flute releases the joy within every heart.

And none other than the blue fairy  
Leaps out of the monsoon pond,  
Only to descend into the courtyard  
Woven by Bangla Mother's enchanting, tender touch.

So too shall the golden sun descend at twilight,  
With a gentle smile amidst the evening's enchantment.  
At the close of day, it will offer to the moon in pure bliss
Its crimson garland of red water lilies!