(Translated from the Assamese by Nabina Das.)
I must talk to the birds about songs in a new way.
Even the evening is complaining sorrowfully about not liking the shadow’s path.
Looks like everyone is upset.
An ancient sorrow is invading everyone.
Yes, I’m coughing. I’m not wearing warm clothes.
There’s mist descending for sure.
I must talk to the mist about winter in a new way.
We do want winter.
It is in winter that all poets have their birthday.
Now we cannot do much in a new manner.
We can only change our language.
Whether you are there or not is my language, or even our conversations.
Even I say whether you have a language or not, if I can
I could speak whatever you want to say!
Come let’s exchange each other’s language then
Perhaps life too will change this way.
This site is designed and maintained by GONECASE