A day 8 Years Ago (At bachar ager Ekadin) (Jibanananda Das Poems)
It was heardThey took him to the morgue.Last night in the February darkWhen the crescent moon, five days toward full, ...
It was heardThey took him to the morgue.Last night in the February darkWhen the crescent moon, five days toward full, ...
I have listened to this cry of "Woman's Rights," this clamoringfor the ballot, for redress for woman's wrongs, and I ...
having chosen exile, madness, obliviontheir striped clothes fadedfaces palethey sleep so heavilythe hospital garden is still empty, wind sweepsthe dust, ...
There's a crack in the city-down that sharp streetIn couples, and armed, tramp rozzers on beat.Like a joss, silhouetted across ...
All last night I kept speaking in thisarchaic language, because I had been readingPoe and thinking about him. I read ...
Dapples my floor the eastern sun, my house faces north,I have nothing to say except that it dapples my floorand ...
Pop Montague's old brain was wried Through all its convolutions With constant thoughts of Homicide And kindred institutions. White-haired Giuseppi ...
In France (to baffle thieves and murderers) A journey takes two days of passport work At least. The plan's sometimes ...
My mournful soul, you, sorrowingFor all my friends around,You have become the burial vaultOf all those hounded down.Devoting to their ...
We hear a great commotion 'Bout the ship that comes to grief, That founders in mid-ocean, Or is driven on ...
Either at my friend's daughter's sixteen-year-old body dumped on the morgue slab, T-shirt stuck fast to one ripped breast I ...
A dear old couple my grandparents were, And kind to all dumb things; they saw in Heaven The lamb that ...
Dapples my floor the eastern sun, my house faces north, I have nothing to say except that it dapples my ...
She lay like a saint on her copper couch; Like an angel asleep she lay, In the stare of the ...
Deeming that I were better dead, "How shall I kill myself?" I said. Thus mooning by the river Seine I ...
Lone amid the cafe's cheer, Sad of heart am I to-night; Dolefully I drink my beer, But no single line ...
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb Where the yew trees blow ...
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