⚝ Intercepted At March 19, 2026
মনোসরণি (Meditations)
Jibanananda Das
Personal Transaltion (Circa 2023)
Feeling as if we are mustered in some inky chamber;—
The bees around the corner know stationarily:
That these people lost their fate dinted of a starcrossed rug;
Underneath of the sediment under a roof of feet five, the crestfallen have set their heads by the dark.
And maybe Chengish still roams the earth, in lust of forlorn blood,
Confucius with his countless advices, down laid formations and went on—
But what a wicked wind that followed, hoisting a crackle within its cuffs.
The wind brings the bell to churches, ringing, so, ringing— slow ring.
At the jetty of sunbays, in ringing of acute humanities.
Oh! how long must serve the black mothers, in blood— and in scorn;
But yet come sons for those warm bosoms, in a new juvenile adorn.
The sun's obtuse beams, crystal wings of hornets,
Lumping about in some desert, giving oases foliages.
Our drama bows its sullen head, swollen shut in the midst
Yet feels the twicebuckled, feels the soils in their brisks.
Begriefed upon that couple of herons, like acute stillness of rivers.
Bequeathed in a lapsing gash, fleeting
Fleeting, withsupine the fleeting dictum.
Or maybe dropped the whole of creation, losing its oath
In an air that plays all day, among the colours of the trees' berth
Losing, losing
Finding, bemusing— the trees and the forester.
And those who erect the pillars of man— broken, broken, broken again;
Maybe from the jolts of brilliance, mistakenly skewing— effacing— in love.
By the river of creation, before the sun's crystalised beams can be erased,
Those seeds that find love, find it in the jolly of soil.
And those who, forever ago, taught man the ropes of laying
Those ancient amoeba now effaced of tide and time's long guilt.
At the jetty of sunbay, those who will find whose mother, calling whom or whim?
Junktitled #129
For Tsai Ming-liang I / I Don't Want to Sleep Alone