Many people saw that tired traveller who came
From a far-off land in the faint moon-light
Wearing a coffin-cloak in the chilly autumn night,
Who brought secretly pomegranate flowers in Amon rice fields.
His misty tears dropp through the night's eyes,
The Madhumoti river winding by its side
Flows far-off leaving no sign behind
And no more looks back on the track left behind.

Yet it looks on those who wait in expectation,
Whose dream and desire rest on Amon paddy's ears
Who look for life's meaningful exposition in the tears,
Who search for life's freedom in touch of chilly death,
Who wrap their eyes up with the cold autumn mist;
The meadow of Mainamoti is mute to these questions.