I'm ready to translate your Bengali poetry into English. Please share the Bengali text you'd like me to translate, and I'll create a literary translation that captures the essence, voice, and emotional truth of the original while maintaining natural, idiomatic English that reads as literature in its own right.

House Within House

One.

Who hid the face?
Who veiled it behind a mask?
Who denied the unripe truth of parijat love?
In this burning's shadow, who sees whom with suspicious eyes?
Termites build houses within houses,
while woodworms eat away all the furniture!

Someone cuts everything away,
all this is known, yet unknown to someone,
who keeps boats without oars,
who has fields stretching empty of harvest, yet who sows the seeds?
Is it he, who only writes, and watches in silence?

Two.

I wanted nothing from you except you alone,
wringing out all this heart's love, what little I receive of you,
exactly that much I have desired;
in the fierce current of inner burning, as this heart's boat drifts away—
where it finds harbor in your breast,
right there I wished to build my home;
however much touch of your lips these lips can guard,
exactly that much is my heaven;
if I win your heart, I'll casually give away this heart's oars;
if only I could have you in this life,
I would accept death so easily—
this much I know in joy's insistence!

Beloved, do not turn your face away from this love;
do not bolt the door against this love,
do not return this heart to its own heart's tombstone.
Even if you show love through wounds, still accept it,
do not bind with hatred, if you can, then bind with love or tenderness, with your touch,
so that when you touch me
I sleep peacefully in moonlight's lap;
when you embrace me, it feels as if the whole world is mine;
take the kingdom if you wish, but don't steal my throne.

Three.

This path that walks alone,
this traveler who talks alone to himself,
what path, what traveler,
both speak quite alone,
both move along marvelously alone,
rising or falling,
stumbling as they go,
do they ever stop?

Suddenly the lone traveler deals all memory's wounds,
the traveler knows well what lies within his breast!
The traveler speaks alone,
the traveler suffers alone,
the traveler hides burnt scars alone in his chest.
Only the poet sees,
like the image of trees,
bent in sky-garlands,
branches sketching themselves.

 
Share this article

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *