One who travels to distant lands for heart's delight— does the heart find delight there, after all?
Love songs and lullabies of peace— are they sung there too in Bengali? Can another tongue truly fill the chest?
Moonlight's hue, the ocean's voice— do they stay trapped within the heart when sorrows come in flocks? Do mountains then feel like home?
When wealth and splendor grow weary, where does the spirit find its footing— where friends remain distant and even old enemies are nowhere to be found?
Busyness, nothing but pure busyness— how much freedom can it grant a soul? When poison settles in the brain, outer light only deepens inner darkness.
Even one drunk on dreams of living well, when tears end and survival becomes the dream, frost or sunlight—slowly dries the heart while dreams walk through the graveyard of wasted years.