Going away

The rays of the sun,
the beams of the moon,
the breeze of the morn,
the shade of the noon,
bring an echo of a sigh
from celeste skies.

The harvest leaves cling
Like swallows to spring,
The mellowed red apples,
the last green brambles,
entwine and kiss for keeps
even in the mouldering heap.

The fond rustle of memory
at the door is all there is,
the sweet joys of youth and love
fast fading like a flower.
Our life a dream,  in dreams
is the door we fain ope or close.

The Carousing Cat

Fat, jolly cat, dreamt of cream,

Licking his whiskers clean,

So proper and prim,

They called him Jim,

He ate butter with a spoon !

He danced all noon,

And at night by moon,

And tickled the mice,

With ribbons of rice,

Until they crooned.

If you asked his name

He would scratch you lame,

And stick to strange ways

Of waltzing with jays,

Or teaching the fish to swoon!

পাওয়া

সহস্র শব্দের মাঝে তোমায় একলা পাব ভাবি

খরস্রোতা নদীর বুকে গাঁথা মসৃণ পাথরের মত ,

 তোমায় ছুঁয়ে থাকবে আমার আলগা চুলের শ্যাওলা –

সমুদ্রের তলায় বন্ধ রামধনু ঝিনুক

যেমন আগলে রাখে নিছক বালুকণা ।

চিত্রিত কার্পেট মুক্ত অলিভ রঙা 

মিশরের রাণীর কাছে সিজার যেমন

পরাজিত , তেমন একা কি পাব তোমায়

কোনো দিন, প্রকৃতিরও অলক্ষ্যে ?

Wishfulness

Oh, ‘Give me the sun’, ‘the sun’,
or a “life of sensations”,
a maenad's mirth,
the “elfin grot”,
and see my yearning
turn to naught.
Else see me wither,
and “peak and pine”
cursed by the weird sisters’ kind,
upon the heather
that blew asunder ,
the poor life of Eustace Vye.

Alma

The fiend is at my throat mother,

I keep lying through my teeth,

When will the angels gather,

And ease the black beast’s grip?

My soul,  you say, is precious,

Precious than all treasure.

It doesn’t feed my belly nor

Shield me from the weather,

But  kings  stroke with eager hands,

The thieving black beast’s hair,

Their bellies full, their coffers  gilt,

With  treasures  tore from  earth’s bier.

The talk of eternity and grace

Is  all  too fine for a  Christian scholar,

Who’s never heard his belly rumble,

Or slept in stables  or  plain heather.

Ophelia

Waves have washed the blue from your eyes,

painting your lips with a violet hue,

your raven hair, cool and finer

than even branched velvet, floats freely

as daisies and long purples bloom

beside the stream whom all shall come to mourn

like Adonis, gone in his prime,

struck the Syrian damsels in annual hum

of grief and undoing of young love.

Despair

I gave up hope long ago,

only she did not leave me,

I buried my heart in a grave

and let it there to rot,

it came back to haunt me yet.

I left memory locked in a chest

it escaped still and held me in thrall

instead. I fled from myself

and was caught unaware

by the shards of mirror I had flung away.

I hid away from time

but he fell me like all else.

I drowned my sorrows deep in the seafloor,

the rain brought them all back,

revived by the breeze of regret.