By
PREMENDRA MITRA
(Translated
from Bengali by Nolini Kanta
Gupta)
A
fire-fly is this mind.
Now
it flares, now it fades.
It
must cross the darkness,
And runs about here and there.
As
if a needle of light,
It
pierces the mighty curtain.
On
an edge of the inner being,
It
weaves a fringe of glimmering consciousness.
Even
like a lightning flash
In
this small bit of my sky,
That
too gleams:
Off and on.
A
fire-fly is this mind.
And
I know it will never receive an answer.
Around
lies a blind Night, dark, impenetrable,
Ever dumb.
Within
there, as if the spark of a question,
This
fire-fly of the mind,
With
no reason whatsoever, blooms and withers.
It
vainly believes that all existence hangs on it as a flower on its stem.
And
yet
There
is a secret murmur in the darkness
As
creation rows along, dashing and splashing.
To
that measure does this fire-fly of the mind
Glimmer–flare
and fade,
Seeking
an ascension, elsewhere,
Beyond knowing and unknowing.