চার প্রহর রাতের বৃষ্টিভেজা ভারী হাওয়ায়
                থমকে আছে সকাল বেলাটা,
         রাত জাগার ভারে যেন মুদে এসেছে
           মলিন আকাশের চোখের পাতা।
      বাদলার পিছল পথে পা টিপে চলেছে প্রহরগুলো।
             যত সব ভাবনার আবছায়া
                  উড়ছে ঝাঁক বেঁধে মনের চার দিকে
                       হালকা বেদনার রঙ মেলে দিয়ে।
      তাদের ধরি-ধরি করে মনটা,
           ভাবি বেঁধে রাখি লেখায়;
                পাশ কাটিয়ে চলে যায় কথাগুলো।
এ কান্না নয়, হাসি নয়, চিন্তা নয়, তত্ত্ব নয়,
                যত-কিছু ঝাপসা-হয়ে-যাওয়া রূপ,
                       ফিকে-হয়ে-যাওয়া গন্ধ,
                         কথা-হারিয়ে-যাওয়া গান,
                     তাপহারা স্মৃতিবিস্মৃতির ধূপছায়া--
                সব নিয়ে একটি মুখ-ফিরিয়ে-চলা স্বপ্নছবি
                       যেন ঘোমটাপরা অভিমানিনী।
           মন বলছে, ডাকো ডাকো,
                ওই ভেসে-যাওয়া পারের খেয়ার আরোহিণী,
                     ওকে একবার ডাকো ফিরে;
           দিনান্তের সন্ধ্যাদীপটি তুলে ধরো
                     ওর মুখের দিকে;
                  করো ওকে বিদায়-বরণ।
                     বলো, "তুমি সত্য, তুমি মধুর,
                       তোমারই বেদনা আজ লুকিয়ে বেড়ায়
                     বসন্তের ফুল ফোটা আর ফুল ঝরার ফাঁকে।
                         তোমার ছবি-আঁকা অক্ষরের লিপিখানি
                                   সবখানেই,
                            নীলে সবুজে সোনায়
                                       রক্তের রাঙা রঙে।'
           তাই আমার আজ মন ভেসেছে
             পলাশবনের চিকন ঢেউয়ে,
                ফাটা মেঘের কিনার দিয়ে উপচে পড়া
                       আচমকা রোদ্দুরের ছটায়।

AT THE DUSK OF the early dawn, Ramananda, the great Brahmin
Teacher, stood in the sacred water of the Ganges waiting long for the cleansing touch of the stream to flow over his heart.
He wondered why it was not granted him this morning.
The sun rose and he prayed for the divine light to bless his
thoughts and open his life to truth.
But his mind remained dark and distraught.
The sun climbed high over the sal forest and the fishermen's
boats spread their sails, the milk-maids with milk-vessels on head went to the market.
The Guru started up, left the water and walked along the sand
amidst weeds and rushes and clamorous saliks, busy digging holes for their nests on the slope of the river bank.
He reached the lane which took him to the evil-smelling village
of the tanners where lean dogs were crunching bones at the wayside and kites swooped down upon casual morsels of flesh.
Bhajan sat before his cottage door under an ancient tamarind tree
working at camel's saddle.
His body shrank with awe when he saw the Guru fresh from his bath
come to the unclean neighbourhood and the grizzly old tanner bowed himself down to the dust from a distance.
Ramananda drew him to his heart and Bhajan, his eyes filled with
tears, cried in dismay, 'Master, why bringest upon thee such pollution!'
And Master said, 'While on my way to my bath I shunned your
village and thus my heart missed the blessings of the Ganges whose mother's love is for all.
'Her own touch comes down at last upon me at the touch of your
body with mine and I am purified.
'I cried this morning to the Sun, "The divine Person who is in
thee is also within me but why do I not meet thee in my mind?"
I have met him at this moment when his light descends upon your
forehead as well as on mine, and there is no need for me today to go to the temple.'

ENTANGLED IN the meshes woven by countless gazing eyes,
he is drawn into a whirl of noise,
the man of fame.
Alas, he has lost his rank among those
who are privileged to remain unaware of the date of their birth,
whose recognition in the world is slight,
even as the leaves are that lightly swing on the branches
and drop on the dust unnoticed.
He lives in his solitary cell among the crowd
with a chain of honour ever jangling round his limbs.
Take pity and free him
in the world of cool light, green shade and sweet reticence,
in the unbounded dust,
the primeval playground of the eternal child.
When the ferry boat from the dark
brought him to the landing on the shore of fresh knowledge,
he had nothing to cover him from the light
that touched his nakedness
as it touches the sail unfurled in the air.
In the simple freedom-of that morning
flowers without fame bloomed in the grass,
and the spring hour spread its golden wings,
in an immensity of leisure.
In that holiday's solitude
his name received its infinite worth from a sweet voice
whose far-away music makes him wistful
in the languorous afternoon of March
and whose date is lettered today
in this glistening quiver of asath leaves.
He had his poet's welcome from the river Padma
and the morning star through the intervals of bamboo leaves on her bank.
The dark masses of cloud had spread before him
a purple shadow on the distant rain-dimmed forest;
his eyes had followed the track of noisy girls to the river
along the shady village lane
and enjoyed the duet of colours under the sunset sky
in the blossoming field of mustard and linseed sown together.
He gazed and said, 'I love it',
and wished that this love of his remained behind him,
even when his big endeavours had come to nothing,
and that his salutation carrying his life-long wonder
should leave a lasting memory of his touch
on the dust of his earth.