Narrator

Ash moves in the room, printed in darkness Paper, book, cover, painting, the call of dead birds--- Ashes moving in the room, what is suppressed in the room One trunk of stories wants to rise up from the floor You have nothing to do: you are the narrator because once you took part in that story. By pressing your own throat you strangled many times the shout of delight You restrained the shout of delight when death was near..... Are you dead? Or not? Death appears, comes near, nearer, then disappears This heart-breaking stress of pleasure, peculiar and unknown to you Such a whip you have never felt before What happened at last? After a torturous wait for her and your death-sucking lip Overflowed the limit and the sky broke open. Out rolled the storm of the destroyed The storm of distress rolling onto the floor But you are still restless, where, there is no peace, none--- Fire does not descend, fire does not bow his head! Where do you throw the flames, where should you, With that thought the cloud bangs his head, sky! sky! Where is the tree? Who can take the flames? You have burnt tree after tree after tree, With that test, in the burned out darkness Ash moves in the room, paper, book, painting.... Cover upon book--- inside the call of dead birds Lightning flies, says, ‘will you be my dream tree?’ Oh? Again? The floor of the room cracks--- Void--- One trunk of fiction emerging from the void, poet! [Translated from 'Kahinikar' (Bengali) by Poet himself]