In your sorrow I will become bewildered, become a handful of grass in the college courtyard that witnessed a thousand loves.
Or I might become the tear-soaked kohl in a newlywed's eyes.
In your sorrow I will become a renunciant, flee home and hearth somewhere, wear white cloth, eat only boiled potatoes. Or perhaps become a dying patient!
In your sorrow I will become stone, I will weather the sea's tumultuous waves, snails, pebbles, shells will keep time with me.
I might just become a nor'wester storm. In your sorrow I will become a revolutionary, tie a towel around my waist and take to the streets, a great black mark blazing on my forehead.
Abandoning everything, I could even become a madman!
In your sorrow I will become a roadside billboard; like that carelessly discarded ex-lover who, after a decade, sees my enormous picture at the street corner and sits there stunned.
Or I will become a creature of the night.
In your sorrow I will be ruined, cry myself into floods, burn my clothes with cigarette flames, stay awake and paint darkness under my eyes.
Or perhaps become a simple, innocent village schoolmaster, whose eyes and face will be wrapped in handfuls of peace.
In your sorrow I will become a killer if need be! Whoever disagrees with my beliefs, I'll instantly leave their corpse behind. I'll murder even that flower-seller girl who couldn't bear her hunger, killing her very sense of hunger.
Or I will become a singer. I'll lose myself in rhythm, intoxicate with my voice's magic. Whatever stirs in my heart, I'll never let anyone guess.
In your sorrow I will become a poet, writing and giving birth to thousands of children. A handful of words will be my only wealth. Writing and writing, I'll extinguish all the fires within.
Or become a beautician, spending my life making others beautiful.
In your sorrow I will now become mute, my eyes will speak, my smile will sing. There will be no enemies, I'll be beloved by all.
Or become a sari seller.
In your sorrow I will become a student, lose myself in books. In one sitting I'll devour Hemanta's complete works or all of Binoy Majumdar's poems.
Or else become some poorly paid clerk.
In your sorrow I'll write poems, auction off all our memories.
In your sorrow I will shout and tell the world all the stories of our separation. That story—what you know of it, I know even more, however much annoyance you've hidden, I've guarded our story that much, however much you've hurt me, I've returned that much love.
In your sorrow someday my death will approach with disheveled hair, candle in hand, still I will not stop. In your sorrow, making death wait, I will finish writing my last poem!