Release Papers from the Sun

Dear Writer,
Now the bond exists only between reader and writer.
Like so many others, with selfless heart, this reader of yours
perhaps still hasn't managed to compose himself quite so well,
for the matter lies somewhat beyond the bounds of his nobility.

But the blame rests partly with belated time,
partly with unwanted circumstances,
partly with untimely, improper introductions,
partly with the writer's strange power of attraction.
And all the rest—entirely the reader's imprudent behavior!

What can be done, tell me!
He's only a reader!
Not an angel, after all!
Just an ordinary mortal!
If one thinks of someone less and less, does that thought vanish from awareness?
If one sees someone less and less, does that person disappear from sight?
The mind's eye, the eye's mind...such things do exist!

Oh my! What am I saying!
Who are you or I to summon someone less and less to mind, good sir!
Just as one needs no passport to enter another's thoughts,
so too, when entering one's own mind, one hardly bothers with passports!
And what if there's no passport!
No force has ever managed to block the forbidden paths!
What can be done! Tragedy...truly!

We would have spoken even after four years.
But would that same person who spoke so freely become such a silent listener,
more absorbed in hearing words than speaking them?
This answer can only come after those four years!
Setting emotion aside for reality, everything is relative!

If after seven and a half tales I were to say: "I love you,"
expecting patience to hear such words from him
now seems to demand tremendous courage!
If reality could give form to imagination's writer,
perhaps the reader's lament would turn into some golden evening's bond!

Who called Rabindranath old, let me hear!
He who is the eternally green, blessed sage of ages upon ages!
Even saying "I love you" to him a thousand times fills the heart with a different kind of joy!
Let the golden boat remain at shore!
Let's not drag him into this!
The reader shouldn't show such audacity!
Some loves are suicidal—I know this well enough!

If eyes should ever meet, it's better to turn them away!
Yet at the corner, in the end, nothing seemed truly finished!
The accounts of many ages remained unsettled.
If we should ever meet suddenly in some unexpected sunlight,
may all accounts be settled then without any hesitation!