Hair dishevelled, Vermillion cleansed, Skin creased, eyes sunken, Face dry, and voice choked. I ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Your uncle died.’ ‘How?’ ‘Just a fall from bed at day break.’
“My boy, where do I bury my dying jute plants? The canals, the ditches and the rivers are dry as a bone. There was not a cloud in the sky,”
O, lovely trees! In winter you shed And in spring you bloom In hot summer days Under your shade Peasants rest, birds carouse. Or in some dusky days
সবে সন্ধ্যা নেমেছে।আকশের গা বেয়ে তারাদের ফুল ফোটেনি এখনও।আর ফুটলেও দেখার উপায় নেই। ট্রাকের অনবরত যাতায়াতে চারিদিক ধূলাময়।অবশ্য কৃষকরা ওসব গায়ে মাখে না। মাখলে কি আর চলে। এখনই তো দু
By the river bank At the forest edge The sun goes down. Water turns gold, And sky orangey. Columns of white herons Perch on a tall tree top
Don’t fear, dear, I do no harm, I promise, For one eve let me sit beside you. She coldly stares, and her Eyes fixed to her feet For a
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