WITH HIS morning songs he knocks at our door bringing his greetings of sunrise. With him we take our cattle to the fields and play our flute in the shade. We lose him to find him again and again in the market crowd. In the busy hour of the day we come upon him of a sudden, sitting on the wayside grass. We march when he beats his drum, We dance when he sings. We stake our joys and sorrows to play his game to the end He stands at the helm of our boat, With him we rock on the perilous waves. For him we light our lamp and wait when our day is done.
পুষ্প দিয়ে মার যারে চিনল না সে মরণকে। বাণ খেয়ে যে পড়ে, সে যে ধরে তোমার চরণকে। সবার নীচে ধুলার 'পরে ফেল যারে মৃত্যু-শরে সে যে তোমার কোলে পড়ে-- ভয় কী বা তার পড়নকে। আরামে যার আঘাত ঢাকা, কলঙ্ক যার সুগন্ধ, নয়ন মেলে দেখল না সে রুদ্র মুখের আনন্দ। মজল না সে চোখের জলে, পৌঁছল না চরণতলে, তিলে তিলে পলে পলে ম'ল যেজন পালঙ্কে।
I WANT TO give you something, my child, for we are drifting in the stream of the world. Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten. But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heart with my gifts. Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us. You have your play and your playmates. What harm is there if you have no time or thought for us. We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost for ever. The river runs swift with a song, breaking through all barriers. But the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her with his love.
