The Canto of Begging - 1 To 4

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