At the crossroad of civilisation

Facing the moon and the sun
And the earth, I bleed;
Embracing mangled corpse of humanity
I bleed at the crossroad of civilisation.

Words are stale,
Expressions are stillborn,
Passions lie wounded on chariot of life
Racing on the wheels of destiny.

Seasons die and are born again;
In clammy tracks of history
Burden of hatred gets laden;
Treasures of futile escapades
Bury tender veins of innocence;
Trampled emotions sing a dirge
And I bleed in kisses of scathing moments.

I can’t carry the cross, yet I wish,
I can’t shed the chains, yet I wish,
I can’t lift me up to your nailed chest,
And, be hung along your stretched hands,
Yet I wish for to die—cursed, stoned,
Ignored and unloved; but I can’t
And, I bleed at the crossroad of civilisation.

O Lord, you had choices;
Yes, you had, my lord—to bleed and to die;
But, I’m left with just a lone—to bleed—
To bleed through an endless life and I bleed.

O my love, wake, wake, wake up

In the deepest desolate corner of my heart

Silently you’re lying alone on the bed;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

Facing the bolted door, I wait on;

How long would moments stretch, dear?

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

Stars have invaded the night sky—

Laying eyes upon my windowpane;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

Pour music onto my life;

Restrain not tunes of your lute;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

I will let free my eyes to meet yours;

I will let my hand rest on your right palm;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

My soul will be brimming with divine nectar;

The darkness will resonate in radiant presence of holy rays;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

[This is a song written in Bengali by Tagore. It has been extremely difficult for me to transliterate it into English. I have miserably failed to fill the intensity, awesome blending of love for his beloved and love for the almighty in twists of stanzas.]

Yet, I went on. I must tell why to a very few readers I have on my page. I went attempting on Tagore’s work with inspiration of someone from whom I learnt Tagore…learnt to feel Tagore…that ultimately drenched my poor soul with peace, purity, and somewhat goodness. Yes, the girl—whom I was to teach—has lent her life to turn me a better than what I had been.

It was the song that she taught me to sing. It was the song that I sang while seeking her hand…she held mine, and we walked long together, hand in hand…and, walking together onto the end where there will just be a single impression left on the deep horizon.

Twilight

O boatman! Sail me to thin line afar
Where last glimmers of dying day
Slip into vacuity of a blurred ocean;
I will carry my destiny there.
I will not dream;
I will only sleep.

Life

Buried in sunken eyes sleep the dreams—
Countless corpses of abundant wishes—
As silent as a songbird that has lost its voice.
There reign phantoms of deeds
Like a sadist, remorseless ruler.

The magic wand destroys slumber, and
The dreams fall in—as loyal as Arthur’s soldiers;
They revel and dance to a fresh tune of promises
Till arrows kiss them as chosen prey.
Mortified they sink in dreamless sleep.

Peace prevails as martyrs die,
Deeds are done as dreams untie;
Life lies as a nursery of deathless dead.