The afternoon sun sags, collapsing on the roadway,
Sravan’s dark monsoonal clouds swarm in,
Darkening the day,
And shrouding the entire sky,
Since you, Bengal’s heart,
India’s bard, and the world’s sun,
Have passed away!
Did you not hear at all the lament of Mother Earth?
Was that why you feigned illness and kept your eyes shut?
This day the pulse of Bengal has begun to throb with pain
O poet!— seas, rivers, forests— all cry out for you in vain!
Vedantic knowledge was yours, forever on the tip of your tongue
Your writings had Saraswati’s blessings, full of learning and rhyme.
In your meditations, Shiva, God of everything auspicious, resided
In your heart Sri Krishna, the one who had even smitten Love, dallied!
Durga, consort of Shiva, and source of all joy, would with you converse.
How could they, deities so powerful, not feel the extent of our loss?
How could they snatch away what they had given so sympathetically?
After all, you were Bengal’s beacon of hope, lighting us up eternally!
We took pride in your glory; you made us feel earth was our only need.
You made us forget our afflictions—timidity, hunger, misery, and ruin!
You shone over our heads every day—like your namesake--the sun!
You made us proud; you made us feel we would never be undone!
You’ve bestowed much love on this land—on India and Bengal,
How have we offended to have made you thus leave us all?
Tell me—who else is there to bless those who dare to blaze?
Who else can protect the pride of the ones that are frail?
Behold, the whole of Bengal laments, unfurling its tresses.
See in this lunar fortnight the distressed moon hiding itself!
Screened by Shravan’s rain cloud, the sun weeps in the horizon.
In house after house men and women cry out, “O poet, return!”
Alas, India’s fate blazes on a pyre, the body no longer visible.
This day, the vermilion marking Bengal’s beauties too is invisible!
Today Saraswati’s lyre and Bengal’s poetic soul know only silence
And funeral flames have scorched even the moon’s radiance!
Till now none knew how close you had become to everyone.
All roads now hold millions of people—all with grief overcome!
After you return to the rasa-filled realm from which you had come
To give us delight, won’t you miss us and lament your earthly home?
Your lyrical messages had made you this land’s dearest soul
But it was not merely its loveliness-- you loved all of Bengal!
Assure us, O poet dearest to our heart, responding to our love
You will return once more to your people from up above.
Full of the rasas, you cried out soulfully for our suffering race
Why did you enamour us so? Now we’ll rue forever your loss!
I believe that if the sun is put out, the entire solar system will go.
Bengal’s sun set forever today; what we’ve lost, only we will know!
No one besides Bengalis will feel the extent of their deprivation
Nowhere outside Bengal will be heard such loud lamentation!
The sun that shone over us has left, leaving us all benighted
In Bengal’s heart the one light still to be seen is that on your funeral pyre!
The rest of India envied Bengalis their good fortune and wondered
How had the sun on Bengal’s thatched huts deigned to descend?
Will Bengal get such a great, world-conquering superman again?
Can this poor land ever again dream of the kind of happiness
You gave us? And so, Kobi guru, our beloved muse-teacher,
We grieve, finding no consolation, no solace whatsoever!
We had thought of you as God’s blessing given to us eternally
Let not death’s torpor make us forget forever heaven’s bounty.
As you depart from us let us plant on your feet farewell kisses
No matter where you are keep this ill-fated people in your wishes
