Stage

Day and night will quarrel on...
The black clouds will still drift away...
Through cracks in closed doors, light will still spill through...
Yet you will remain, only as distance, standing still.

The burnt hue will someday flush somewhere with sorrow...
Gripping the window grille, watching someone wait, the russet evening
will surely set sail again on departure's path...
The wind's chatter and murmur will one day fall silent...
Yet the story of making you mine will never,
even by mistake, be written anew.

The boishakhi storm will cease one afternoon...
Someone will perhaps learn to mouth false "I love you"s...
In abandoned mailboxes, rows of letters, someone or other will come daily
and faithfully deposit them for someone's sake...
Yet you will remain just a fragment of untouchable happiness.

Even on days of burning, the lotus will bloom true...
At high noon, even the household god may be exiled...
The pole star will find its place in the night sky with its blurred body...
Yet you will stay, crystallized as the stage called "Lost Heart."