THE NIGHT deepens and the dying flame flickers in the lamp.
        I forgot to notice when the evening-like a village girl who has filled her pitcher at the river a last time for that day-closed the door on her cabin.
        I was speaking to you, my love, with mind barely conscious of my voice-tell me, had it any meaning? Did it bring you any message from beyond life's borders?
For now, since my voice has ceased, I feel the night throbbing with thoughts that gaze in awe at the abyss of their dumbness.

I WOKE AND found his letter with the morning.
I do not know what it says, for I cannot read.
I shall leave the wise man alone with his books, I shall not trouble him, for who knows if he can read what the letter says.
Let me hold it to my forehead and press it to my heart.
When the night grows still and stars come out one by one I will spread it on my lap and stay silent.
The rustling leaves will read it aloud to me, the rushing stream will chant it, and the seven wise stars will sing it to me from the sky.
I cannot find what I seek, I cannot understand what I would lean but this unread letter has lightened my burdens and turned my though into songs.

    স্মৃতি সে যে নিশিদিন
           বর্তমানেরে নিঃশেষ করি
                 অতীতের শোধে ঋণ।