That book which you had given me, to call clouds, once,
Opening it today found it sunk in knee deep water,
The next page turned out to be a river gliding away far,

That book which you gave me full of plants,
Today can't move a single inch through it,
For it had grown a forest really dense and deep,
Those plants had grown tall and wide
Enough to hold up all the sunlight,

That book which you had given me to learn stream,
Found it turned into a huge waterfall, wild, having its own rhythm,
Even that white feather, that page marker,
The book where I kept it,
Found that it had been by magic
Turned into a sanctuary, of birds,
They are flying, swimming, sitting there ,
-quite a pleasing sight,

All those books given by you
Are now like deserts, ranges of mountains,
They all are now like horizon,

Interestingly,  today a few friends have come home
To have a look at the library owned
By me,
Now tell me, what should I tell them?

(Note: it is a transliteration of a poem called 'Premik', by Joy Goswami, from his collected poems, vol ii,)


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