In flower-gardens he builds others abodes,
His own on the roads

Half the moon in his hand and half his dreadlocks hide
On a moonless night

The perfect teacher he is mine, my death's twin brother -
I have none other

Himself blind, he leads me through the lane
That's closed to all men

Raising a fire as high as the stars,
That he enters

He bids streams take such an uncanny course
As if to make them return to their source

In his footprints, when he walks his way,
Thirsting flames sway

If he blows, water turns honey in glasses,
Trees pop up in sand where he passes

He - my blood-begetter - recalls my erstwhile dreams,
I've built in him

My nest. But as soon as the teacher dies
Countless pretexts arise
Translated from Bangla by Subrata Augastine Gomes