We needed to meet one more time, so when the fear of losing you rose again, I could convince myself, no, I haven't become numb yet.
Watching you let go of my hand for the last time, I could have learned that even endings have an end.
On the day of final seeing, how two pairs of eyes compose themselves, pretending to hold back tears, we needed one last meeting just to learn that performance.
Our final union might have given birth to some vast history.
After the final meeting, would I return home more peaceful than before, or scatter everything into chaos— we needed one last seeing just to witness that.
Lost on your lips, I would have found the ultimate essence of myself.
Burning, burning in your absence, I could have written epics day and night.
After the final meeting, that night I might have sat down to write something. Through tears till dawn, at the call to prayer I might have finished a four-line poem and gone to sleep. Those simple four lines might have given Bengali literature the most precious four lines ever written about separation.
I am terribly happy in defeat, thinking of your happiness.
You won in the end! I'm so glad, you know?
Like a bird beating its wings, setting you free to fly has somehow freed myself.
Be very well. Don't come back this way.
As I held your hand like a flower on thorn-strewn paths, may your journeys be like thorns on flower-lined roads. ...This is all I ask.
But it would be terrible if you turned back to me! The road to my side is so narrow that just thinking of you walking this path gives me goosebumps!
Let me spend this small life alone! Nothing will happen to me—I love you so...!