Pilgrims are out searching for a holy land,
Both breathing and pace take on speed,
Winter sings in a north-facing house,
Twelve virgins keep coming back in an endless cycle,
And a flying man is held back by gravitation.

I know that cautious lion-hunter,
Blood spurting out on his chin in the depth of darkness.
The manes of the lion float in the fog,
Hairs fall and after flaying the dead lion turns into another blue crow.

O blue crow, O clear-hearted tramping wind,
Look how I throw into the blazing fire,
Tongue, cries and Mother thy wailing on a painful morning.
The virgins swans of a king who once reigned in a land,
Love the foxes, and a fearful slave-girl always warns me
‘O daughter of my master, don't laugh like this,
Such laughter does not augur well'.

Translated from Bangla by Harunur Rashid