Go where you will – I shall remain on Bengal’s shore Shall see jackfruit leaves dropping in the dawn’s breeze; Shall see the brown wings of shalik chill in the evening, Its yellow leg under the white down goes on dancing In the grass, darkness – once, twice – and then suddenly The forest’s oak beckons it to its heart’s side, Shall see sad feminine hands – white conch-bangles Crying like conch shells in the ash-grey wind: She stands on the pond’s side in the evening, As if she will take the parched rice hued duck To some land of legends – As if the fragrance of the quiltcover clings to her body, As if she is born out of watercress in the pond’s nest – Washes her feet silently – then goes faraway, traceless In the fog – yet I know I shall not lose her In the crowd of the earth – She is there on my Bengal’s shore. (Sonnet 3, Rupashi Bangla)