There is a river buried just under my pillow.
The cry of that river is heard after waking up from a deep sleep suddenly; hereditary-longing for the past is also heard. But, if I ever put my hand in the pillow and try to bring the river out, then it is no longer visible - it gets lost into the void.
I repeatedly say, come to the scene; let there be a neat linking of gathering. May your bright face be composed just as the leaves of the trees shine after the rain on the avenue.
I bring the essence out in the entirety by separating our united-moments like breaking nuts. But from which direction did the river go, Shashanka could no longer control it, the river called Bipasha also fell prostrated before it.
The fields burst into countless small walls on the farmer's forehead in the severe heat of Jyestha. Yet, my strange-flowing-river is playing beneath my pillow by creating splashing-sounds. On the other hand, look at the deep-longings of the soul beneath your pillow. Rather, let's release the longings into the river, let it bathe and let it get wet. The rainfall is not coming being a slave like hands of a clock.
(The poem is translated from Bengali by Ashraful Kabir.)
Ashraful Kabir is a poet, translator, critic and a banker
