I have invited sleep to celebrate my wakefulness, deep; sleep came slept with my dream, my awakening drifted away in a void stream. Reflections of the far city lights sparkle on the flowing river of the illusive night, as flakes of hope shimmer in the dark depth of intense fright.
The distorted gleam of passing car lights on a pool of rain water, in splurges ,scatter under the speeding wheels; the constant rhythmic pulse of the impatient wipers draw glimmering images of hazy and glinting whispers on the canvas of the windscreens.
A longing homebound, throbs captive for a peaceful sleep in bed-spread darkness, moon slowly melting on sofa; mysterious solitude soaking in waving familiar curtains, crippled senses seeking another life. Distress of anxious time drift and float like ignored corpses for the assurance of heavenly chime.
My bengali poem Basundhara, which means ‘The Earth’, brings out the green essence of the earth. The earth never ceases to ooze out its blessings and love in spite of the severe tortures on it like the draughts, floods, volcanic eruptions, earthquake, bombing, shelling etc.
The poem was originally written in Bengali, but one of my dear friends felt the urge to make it universal and to spread its fervent spirit also beyond the circle outside the language barrier. Both the versions are presented below
What's the worry! Here I am, touch me ! My open far grown fields nascent green, shy Call you by your nickname; Your loving names long forgotten, that are as ancient as the sky. Come, send your hissing roots in numerous sigh into my oblivion depth. Let your flowers bloom out my breath through your dewy despair, year after year.
How long will you carry the skeleton, age-old, on your shoulders, weary? The skeleton gets heavier, in pride and desire, leaving life,– a mere spectator. Lost your path? What's the worry! Losing is gaining as mystic as raining. Shells explode, fire-flowers bloom smell of gunpowder fills empty pride nourishing gloom.
When wars will fade into the walls of the borders, I will bear a child, coming into life with a dumb scream of the burnt green, fatherless; I will germinate green, - merciless. The primordial joy of creation helpless and shameless, will sprout in my breast. God will be born in my virgin lap, once again.
On the careless lane of dusty days Unsure were the footsteps, Busy were some strides of haste And some were strolls Of scented leisure. Treasure Of the profound waste Of empty times.
Wider grew the lane And longer, its trail.... With dust of nothingness, frail. The untamed weeds of wilderness Measured time.
Visions grew hazy Until the dusty lane disappeared In a whispering dot At the wavering line Of the glistening horizon.
Moon Drops creations 