Behold, ye, that poet of sorrows,
There he wallows, deep in misery,
For there’s a dream that haunts him:
A dream of beauty, of his beloved one,
Who beckons and beckons from afar!
Alas! The poor poet, afraid to dream,
Who shall save him from his malady?
Too afraid of the dream to come true?
What dream, what nightmare is this?
The dream of beauty beckons maddeningly:
On a twilight beach in a spring midnight—
How shall I come? Where is the path?
The golden road that leads to his beloved’s heart!
Behold, O ye, that poet of sorrows,
How pitifully he pines for his beloved!
He stands ransom to his own solitude,
Will he not be saved? Will none come?
Who will understand his demons?
Who will see the darkness that engulfs?
O, do not torment him, that pitiful soul!
Who will feel the furies of his desolate heart?
There he wallows, deep in his misery,
Dreaming, dreaming of his beloved one—
Too afraid, sigh, too forsaken, and too lost.
For S. N.―
Bardhaman, Māgha Kṛṣṇā Pancamī.
The 17th of January in 2017.