THE SHORE whispers to the sea:
'Write to me what thy waves struggle to say.'
The sea writes in foam again and again
and wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair.

৪৮
যখন পথিক এলেম কুসুমবনে
            শুধু আছে কুঁড়ি দুটি।
চলে যাব যবে, বসন্তসমীরণে
            কুসুম উঠিবে ফুটি॥    

WHEN IN THE depth of the night
in the phantasmal light of the sick-bed
appears your wakeful presence,
it seems to me
that the countless suns and stars
have guaranteed my little life:
then I know that you will leave me
and the fear spreads from sky to sky,
the fear of the terrible indifference
of the All.