3385 (08/02/1986) D


NIIL SÁYARER SVARŃA KAMAL
PHUT́ATO KENO KEI BÁ JÁNE
NÁ NÁ NÁ SE JE ÁMÁR MANE

DOLÁ DITO BHÁVA JÁGÁTO
VYATHÁ JÁNÁTO SAḾGOPANE
NÁ NÁ NÁ SE JE ÁMÁR MANE

MADHUR ÁSHE GUNJARIYÁ
ÁSATO BHRAMAR SANTRAPIÁ
PHULER PARÁG JATA ANURÁG
D́HELE DITO TÁR PARÁŃE
NÁ NÁ NÁ SE JE ÁMÁR MANE

KAITO KATHÁ ÁPAN MANE
SE BHÁŚÁ TÁR SEI JÁNE
MAN MAYURE THEKE DÚRE
DEKHE TÁRE NÁCATO VIJANE
PRÁŃOCCHVASE DURE RABHASE
UT́HATO HESE AKÁRAŃE
NÁ NÁ NÁ SE JE ÁMÁR MANE

NIIL SÁYARER SVARŃA KAMAL
PHUT́ATO KENO KEI BÁ JÁNE
NÁ NÁ NÁ SE JE ÁMÁR MANE







In the blue sea, a golden lotus blooms.
Nobody knows why.
No, no, no! It indeed blooms in my own mind.

It starts swinging,
raising feelings
and secretly making me understand its (my/their) agony.

The honeybee comes buzzing,
thirsty,
with the hope of honey.
All the affection stored in the pollen
has been poured into (their) heart(s).

The language of the mind’s soliloquy
is known to Him only.
My mental peacock stays at a distance,
and observes (them) dancing in seclusion / a secluded dance.
With deep exhalation,
the upsurge of emotions rises from afar.