In a Boishakh
On your forehead is a red Tip,
Worn in Boishakhi Shari,
The bracelets are also arrayed nicely,
You are looking so beautiful.
I did not wear Panjabi ever,
Though today I am putting on it only for you,
In the crowed of the fair we are walking by hand to hand,
This is First-Boishakh.
You said, listen- take me
To Boishakhi fair every year,
Give me both handful of glass bracelet,
Red in one year, and blue in another,
Nothing more I want to you,
Even if you keep me in cottage
I will keep it lighting up,
Just buy for me bracelets in every year.
Floating over here from the stage behind the banyan’s root
The song of Boishakhi ‘come on hey Boishakh, come on come on’,
Over here men and women break down a mighty arrangement,
They put display of soak rice-Hilsha.
In the walking I hold your hand and say,
I will bring you back to the Boishakhi fair in every year;
You just stay by me,
Wipe up the hidden hurts in my heart by soft touch.
The past tempest turned havoc upon all of me,
Hath left dormant this my world,
Now I don’t get a vain Panjabee wear any longer,
And that one you pledged is also torn so untidy,
How many Boishakh come, and how many pass away;
I sit alone in waiting for you;
You are still right going to Boishakhi Fair
By holding the hand of other man!
Copyright © A K Das Mridul | Year Posted 2014
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