পাতা:ক্রমশ ফসিলের মত একটা শব্দ.pdf/৪৪

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এই পাতাটির মুদ্রণ সংশোধন করা প্রয়োজন।


Biswanath Bhattacharya Sharpening My Inward Knife I am just sharpening my invard knife Against the grindstone of so-called democracy As a long-tailed pigeon sharpens its feathers Against the scorching sun. A rare repressed rage heaves in my breast And I ambiguously admire myself for the dauntlessness, Yet the people innocently go on popularising me And place my purity beyond question I know it's not their obvious practice though, But my consciousness pines as if they defame me – In fact their hearts are one as that of mine. But a soul while sympathetically used to look down upon The man in mask within me — My primitiveness would inflame through and through And like the fierce stroke of a vicious reptile My knife could have been pierced in my very breast which heaves like the bellow of a blacksmith, – - Then you all perhaps would have stirred I And when the strenuous sun will step homeward down, The western horizon burst into blood-red flame 1 will dip ultimately my inward knife to temper in thee. 88