Dark and lovely,
Your face,
Fair and lovely,
Your cheeks
Appleyish and fine,
your lips
Pink,
Your hair,
Waist-long.
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Dru addict, you too are the son of somebody,
Who never wanted to make youAn addict,Where your friendsWho developed the habit in youAnd leaving you in abject povertyAnd bad state,Fled they awayAnd now you selling the things for the intoxicants,Trying every sort of addictionAnd instead of it, sleep is not on the eyes,You keepong half-awake and babbling,Your eyes red withWhich you understand it not.
Poverty,
I know it?The moon shining throughThe patchesof the straw-thatched cottage.Poverty,I know it,What is poverty.Poverty can make youWeep internally,Poverty is but the second name of misery.
The office staff is not,
Over the chair he sits on.Can’t say, where has he gone,Is he within the campus or outside,Works or passes time?
In this world of
You can seeWhere my global village is,My global village lies it here,See you the positioning of itOn the world map.
To paint the eyes of Bhagabati
Or the scroll sheetOr to cast in metalsToo is a priceless art,Not less than the poetry of the poets.
Too much of catholicity
Punishing poor womankindThe poor soul and heartNot at all goodAs none of us moralistic,Not even the church men,The child is definitely holyBut to save the mother more important.To be a Catholic is not toBe fanatical and obdurate,Inhuman and un-godly,Conservative and blind to faith.