People call me fugitive my heart aches .
Still I want to be a fierce salmon-trout into the tank of life.
Where will I flee when every night I feel
my beloved wife's breath on my face and eyes?
Where and how will I hurry away
when I feel the wearied body of my baby on breast?
So I stand by the door all day long in favour of life.

When chickens coming out from henroost in the morning
move to the mire crowing feebly, I quickly get up from my bed
and cover the face of fire with my hands.

Didn't I fearlessly jump into the water of the Bay of Bengal
when a tiny girl of the water-slaves suddenly got confined
to the waves going to search for the golden conch?

When my better-half embittered by the oppression of cockroaches
goes smashing the whole race of insects,
don't I then make her delighted by praising her sari?