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the canto of begging

1.
when the morning sets in
with the sun rising in the east 
i put on the dress of a beggar 
extended up to the horizon
and the canto of my begging starts 

i beg 
beside the big-bazar 
beside the fly-over 
beside the college-campus 
beside the cow-market 

you then put your elbow 
on the body of the day 
giving a perfect and unbiased pose 
to attached to the album of life 

people of the working-class 
spread hither and thither
to write some more decimal fraction 
on the notebook of life

2.
in the dusts and soil of rural-bengal  
in the testament written by the grass
i am a son of the immortal 

my begging-bowl is the most 
favourite go-ahead of a alone man

then speaking around are 
the chop singara aluposta 

and the love-story of a hyacinth  
blooming in the pond 
blind by mud 

also in the overflowed dustbin of the city 
waiting rightly with an erected head  
the excitement of your absence 

3. 
coming to this canto of begging
do you know 
i  enjoy both 
your intensity and your sharpness

your secret current flows me to the pore of the skin 
of the body of the puller of a hand-barrow
your cold attracts me 
towards the syllabus of waning moonlight  

i do realise now that the stale afternoons 
saved in my pocket
stitched so many new muscles 
with my vocal chord

and i’m howling in joy…
 
4.
what’s an enjoyment… hahaha…day after day
spending too much chaos 
and living to so little extent
tell me is it the least 

within the left-over on the leaf-plates
after eating by the baboos 
i can discover more and more
love 

the mango tree the grass-hopper my begging-bowl
and from the tune of the laxmi-panchali
coming from the middle-class houses
listen, how flourishing is my mother-tongue

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