Questions of Form and Sorrow
Just because mangoes are round,
Should we then call them “servants” (golam)?
And seeing a crowd at the wheat shop,
Must one suddenly turn solemn?
Where the afternoon drifts away neglected,
Wings spread and flying —
If someone calls it Belur,
Is that too a mistake made again and again?
Those crushed beneath the hands of the “tie-wearing” gentlemen —
Are they the typists themselves?
Do they not have any dignity of their own?
When food begins to taste like poison,
And the mind turns bishonno (sorrowful),
Ah — how strange that happiness itself
Becomes the source of our pain.
