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A Letter From a Lover

"It was heard
They took him to the morgue.
Last night in the February dark
When the crescent moon, five days toward full, had set
He'd had the urge to die."

In the artistic creation of poetry, there is a strong occupation of chaotic madness. The creator of the world gave His one particle of love in the creation. With this, we love this crazy life, love art, poetry, music, the immortal invincible love story. Nothing stops for anyone in the world, just as it is true, man saves people, in this world of joy, in pure love, it is also a constant truth.

There is an undertone language of silence. Don't touch the silence too much, as this silence is nothing but eloquent. Before the shadows merge into the pitch darkness, the eternal being asked himself, "Is the life that carries me, really me?” I, who loves to see the colors of the sunset on the water, am I the one whose calm cold voice chooses the emotion, determines the tribe of truth and falsehood? How helpless are people to reality? Or does the reality go hand in hand with the interpretation of the personal truth of humans?

You were telling me that there is no sin in love. Love is as free as the sky. There is no blackness in it as it is as pure as nature. I did not speak. I was silently listening to you. I am your former love, I do not have the key to your present.

But I have never seen you lie.

You and I used to love to listen to the sound of the rain on a tin-shed roof in a remote village.

And the same us now, calculate the days and months of our children to stay with each other so that the breakdown of our past relationship does not touch them so much.

I am also learning it slowly, there is no end to learning in the world!

I couldn't ask you a question but a thousand questions were coming in my mind. Does our past overshadow our present? The present is also making the truth of its own rules, isn’t it? if the present is patched up there due to a past, is there no responsibility for it?

Sometimes I wake up at night for no specific reason. The need to find the definition of life by cherishing the reality for so long, that need for the time is gone. The power to walk anew is still to be found in this life, in the utterance of every word of the poem, in the smell of the poetic body, in the poetic taste.

That's where I am, and that’s where you are, and that’s where the joyful early childhood days of our children. And with it, resides an existence of an infallible poem. I don't want to understand whether it is a blessing or a curse.

May the benevolent God give you peace, keep you full of love in your present, and make you a proper reformer of the past.

I will go on to comprehend the meaning of that poem.
The greater truth than that I have nothing else!

"I know, yet I know,
A woman's heart—love—a child—a home—these are not everything,
Not wealth nor fame nor creature comforts—
There is some other perilous wonder
Which frolics
In our very blood.
It exhausts us—
Fatigues, exhausts us.
That exhaustion is not present
In the morgue.
And so
In that morgue
Flat out he lies upon a table."

Note : A Day Eight Years Ago by Jibananda Das , Translated by Clinton B. Seely.