Banalata Sen
Thousands of years, I've been knocking around the world's ways,
from the Ceylon waters in night's gloom to far-off Malaya sea
much have I hiked; in Vimbisar and Ashok's grayed kingdoms
had I been there; faring further down to dark, distant Vidarbha city;
I'm a weary spirit, around me life's oceanic spumes galore,
was given a moment's calm or two by Banalata Sen of Natore.
Her hair was darkling as a long-distant night at Vidisha,
her face Sravasti's delicate designs; as on a faraway sea
the sailor with the smashed helm and far from sailing further
spots with curious eyes a land of green grass in a cinnamon isle,
thus did I stare at her in the dark; said she, "So long, where were you?"
raising her eyes as if bird's nests, Banalata Sen of Natore.
At the end of a long day, like the drone of dew's dripping
evening slinks in; kites shake the sun's smells off their wings;
once the world's colors clear out, the manuscript's set
for stories, in the thick of fireflies' endless glittering;
all birds reel back home – all rivers too – all of this life's deals end;
only the dark tarries, for me to sit across from Banalata Sen.
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