You call yourself a lover, yet know nothing of her heart? What kind of love is this, I cannot fathom! All this grand drama of your stormy romance— where has it gone, your magnificent love-play? Tell me, Nirupam! You call yourself a lover, yet cannot feel her craving for street-side snacks? What kind of love is this, I cannot fathom! All this grand drama of drawing near to each other— where has it gone, your magnificent game of hide-and-seek? Tell me, Nirupam! You call yourself a lover, yet cannot sense her waiting by the silent riverbank? What kind of love is this, I cannot fathom! All this grand drama of two pairs of eyes and tear-soaked pillows— where has it gone, your magnificent game of restless longing? Tell me, Nirupam! You call yourself a lover, yet cannot understand the language of her songs? What kind of love is this, I cannot fathom! All this grand drama of souls pulled by the same melody at all hours— where has it gone, your magnificent game of songs in the dying afternoon? Tell me, Nirupam! You call yourself a lover, yet cannot grasp her sickness of living in you? What kind of love is this, I cannot fathom! All this grand drama of being wrecked by storms of feeling every night— where has it gone, your magnificent game of building homes on quicksand? Tell me, Nirupam!
Speak, incomparable one
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