Again I shall return to the Dhansiri’s banks, to this Bengal,
Not as a man, perhaps, but as a shalik bird, or a white hawk.
As, perhaps, a crow of dawn in this land of autumn’s new rice harvest,
I’ll float upon the breast of fog one day in the shade of a jackfruit tree.
Or I’ll be the pet duck of some teenaged girl — ankle bells upon her reddened feet —
I’ll spend the whole day floating on duckweed-scented waters.
Once again I’ll come, smitten by Bengal’s rivers, fields, to this
Green and kindly land of Bengal, moistened by the waves of the Jalangi.
Perhaps you’ll gaze at buzzards soaring, borne upon sunset breezes,
Perhaps you’ll hear a spotted owl screeching from a shimul tree branch,
Perhaps a child is strewing puffed rice on the grass of some home’s inner courtyard.
Upon the Rupsa river’s murky waters a youth perhaps steers his dinghy with
Its torn white sail—reddish clouds scud by, and through the darkness, swimming
To their nest, you’ll spot white herons. Amidst their crowd is where you’ll find me.