River, field, harvest songs dissolve into the wind,
From villages comes the trump card, beaten and worn,
Pure blessing lifted from the realm of dreams,
Happiness wrapped in feathers seeks emptiness year-round.
Truth is, there's no happiness here. What is happiness?
No happiness in villages, none in cities either.
Reach for happiness's heart and the noose tightens,
So in this detached heart only sorrow remains.
From time's lap the beaten trump card strikes hard,
Spreads cool arms to pull the bird of happiness close,
Yet the bird flies away, finds the empty blue sky.
Only here does happiness's affliction beat its head to death.
From tears perhaps one day happiness will come,
The heart will then become Bengal's painted face.