To write one proper rebellious poem, my eyes stay glazed with longing, I keep searching for beauty. Without finding the purest beauty, how can one write poetry at all! Yet setting out to seek the beautiful, I've found only the trail of ugliness.
Waiting for the most beautiful flower to bloom, I sit all day with notebook and pen. The flower never blooms, and no poetry flows from my pen either.
To write just one love poem, I'm dying as I dig through history. Yet this very history won't let me write poetry.
History is filled only with tales of victory and defeat, schemes of governance, fighting, cutting down. There's no love anywhere in it.
In my thirst to write poetry, I deliberately stayed hungry, thinking I'd write something authentic with the taste of hunger. But...no sir, I couldn't become such a great ascetic that I could swallow hunger and still write! This isn't my calling.
Loving nature, I watched the rain drip slowly, breathed in the scent of wet earth, saw moonlight by the riverbank. I couldn't understand—what was there to write about seeing all this!?
Later I understood even more—I'm not Jibanananda, after all, who could pour even plain nature into poetry!
Not one poem of mine got written properly. Just as I writhed for a poem before birth, I'll regret after death too. I won't be able to give birth to even one poem in this lifetime.