Lying at the ancient shrine, a few bones of man
Listen to the sound of a night-bird. The hill of memory
Descends upon his solid night making it more condensed.
All these nights are only to talk to themselves.
I know, the traveler, the guest of dust, dreamt once
With pleasure in much illusion a beautiful world;
All his crowded memories are now futile dirge of life,
The sound of the night-bird. His grave, a collected heap
Of darkness, as it were a shoal of sand; both sides of it,
There flows a fierce stream of life, full of waves;
On that lifeless white shoal of sand, beside the coffin,
There plays the Tom-tom. Into the old bricks, who hear
the innumerable mistakes falling down into death’s caves?
The sound of the night-bird makes the shrine ancient tremble.
6.9.2017 Sirajganj
