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Where does this path go*

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Where does this path go,
Who that does really know,
To the foot of which hill,
To which sea coast
To which wish implausible
Who does that really know; Who travels to and fro
Through this road , who goes
Who does that know,
How are His songs,
What smile doth He carry for long,
For which quest does he go
Who that does really know. {* note: it is a transliteration of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore, as can be found in collected works, birth centenary edition, volume four, page 123, included in ' পূজা ' ( worship) section. The transliteration is my humble tribute to the greatest poet and philosopher of all times}

Winter morning

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Don't know why but everytime I think of winter,  how I hear bells chime,
Somewhere up there in hills, Where once had we that feel Of mist and dew and roads running quiet All drenched by softest light, And how we kept on walking through The fog and foliage to get that view Of the hills and their sun kissed peaks How there once a sabbatical we did seek, How that sojourn and many more after With a feeling of warmth comes winter, A bit ascetic sometimes, the sombre gongs, Sometimes colorful, with cakes and songs,  How winter brings so many things Pines, deodars and trees incense bearing.
( the painting attached for illustrative purpose is done by Mopasang Valath, an artist and landscape painter hailing from Kerala, India, who follows varied media, but mostly watercolor. This one is acrylic on canvas ) 


Who will take me*

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Breaking the key to my home, who wilt take me
O friend mine!
Without seeing thou, canst live life so lone;

Perhaps the night has ended
Perhaps the sun has sent rays,
Thy soft pinkish morning's glow
On the sky blue how doth show-
There can see the path ahead,
Wilt not thy chariot reach my door?

All those stars of the sky
How stare momentless
As they beside the night
and dawn's path take rest,
Seeing thou they wilt leaving all
Into the luminous sea take a fall;

All those pilgrims of the morn
Perhaps they have come like birds-
Singing songs of mirth, in flocks,
Perhaps the flower has bloomed,
Perhaps the music has arisen
In thy lyre of the sky ( of this season).

( * Note: it is a transliteration of a song of Rabindranath Tagore, as can be found in collected works, birth centenary edition, page 22, volume four.
This transliteration is my humble tribute to the greatest poet, philosopher of all times)


How many times have I thought*

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How many times have I thought
To feet thine should've my heart brought, Holding thy feet, friend mine, will express
How much do I love thee in secret, Thought as Thou hath been the God of Heaven
How could a mere mortal like me say my love even, Thought will live at a distance from thee
All through my life will just remain a devotee, No one wilt know my love so deep
No one wilt see where my tears me keep, Now today whence Thou hath arrived to ask
How can I say how much Thou do I love. ( * Note: it is a transliteration of a song written by Rabindranath Tagore, included in  ' প্রেম ও প্রকৃতি ' / Love and Nature section of his collected works, volume four, birth centenary edition, page 675.
The transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore, the greatest poet, philosopher of all times )
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Without You where doth lie
The destination of my love?
Had you been not there
Where would have found I
The words of my longings
My songs, my harp, Love mine?

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How beautiful is it
To see rain and dew
Resting quite on leaves
And blooms, greet new
(The day) as it wakes up and sees
Impearling poesy carried by the breeze...

Birsa *

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From Ulihatu's sand and dust
How you worked , You the beauty of this soil,
Working under scorching heat , a crop sharer,
Of that colonial Bihar,
A mere ryot ( raiyyat), grazing sheep in other hours,
A tuila in hand,
And wandered perhaps in the forest of Bohonda,
Had you been also struck
By the flowering forest in spring?
Had you played your tuila and flute too?
( as folklores around you sing) Now after so many years, when
That colonial discriminatory rule
Is still found in our country ,
When still the tribals are thrown away
From a college or university,
When still a girl from a remote village,
Can't find a place in the admission register,
Because she is just an offspring
Of a santhal family , or a munda, When Rohith Vemula and others Had to face discrimination Because they were termed ' non- bhakts',
How we are reminded, you had
To go through the same, Had then, your revolt, all went in vain? ( * Note: today being the birthday of Birsa Munda, one of the pioneers…

O Thou the beauty of dusk...

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Whence doth I look up at thou
O you the beauty of the dusk,
How am  I filled with the pervading sense
Of only wonder and astonishment...

~ Moinak

( my fb newsfeed is full of pictures of the sky here at kolkata today . I am sharing just two from my friends here. Two beautiful persons , keen photographers , Abhijit Roy and Mrinmoy Pratihar da. )