My Songs

My songs like wounded birds, faIl

At thy feet, O darling. Pick up all

Those bleeding birds in your breast

Tenderly and let them meet their eternal rest

At thy bosom, a death beautiful and serene.

Borne on the wings of music they were seen

Flying in the sky when the arrow of thine eyes Pierced them:

And with their dying notes there
did arise

A new flood tide of songs, O my hunter

Thou brought for me a taste of nectar

Shrouded in death's melancholy.

[Original in Bangla: Gaan-guli mor; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]