My GOD ! don't know how to console thee
Your creation ashamed, with impotent frustration
is pasted flat on the hardened face of the dead beggar
lying on the road at the end of our lane
His prostrated most-naked body ,like a log of rotten wood !
Was not he born , in human way, by thy sanction , Lord !
yet what thou achieved by dropping off his tail.
Throughout life supporting a starving body and soul
getting thrashed by human society and thy indifferent seasons
now he has returned back what he received as false gift ,his life !
His wide-opened opaque eyes shuttig sharp doors ,on your illusive world
your seasonal games -the rain the storm , the spring
getting kicked from his winning death
is poised in final triumph and thy sad defeat
There lies his uncompropising stiffened body and hardened toes
humble down all your creative- dreams , - in shame !
(Written in 1960s in Bengali and was published in CACTUS (1969);now, translated by the poet on 17 oct '09)
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