It’s been quite long
That the dim light of the dusk weeps with me.
My thoughts remain
At the 9.30 hours of the southern windy roof-top;
At the tram-lanes, buses, metros,
At the footpaths of Chowringhee.
It’s not possible to run back home.
Even the happiest hours are hung upon by a gloom,
And the distance hangs upon, as if sincerely.
I now count my days to come to you —
Not many are left, a few, a little more, in a hurry…
Note: This is a loose translation of my recent Bengali original.