You have drunk the draught of songs
that I poured for you，
and accepted the garland of my woven dreams.
My heart straying in the wilderness
was ever touched by the pain that was your own touch.
When my days are done my leave taking hushed
in a fnal silence，
my voice will linger in the autumn light
and rain-laden clouds
with the message that we had met.
25
我把写出我秘密的情歌送给你无定的心灵
我感到羞怯，恐怕它的
意义和韵调被忽略了。
我要等到那个同情的夜晚
一段幸运的时间，
你的眼光沉浸在温柔的朦胧之中，
我的声音在真理的
深深宁静中达到了你。
我要从我的低语中把我的秘密
在你心的寂静的一角
转来转去，
就像蟋蟀在寂静的娑罗树丛中
夜的珠串里
旋转它唧唧的单音的念珠。
My heart feels shy to bring to your vagrant mind the lvric of my secret lest its meaning be missed and its rhythm.
I shall wait for some auspicious hour
When the evening is compassionate，
your eyes drowned in its tender dimness.
and my voice reaches you
in a profound calm of truth.
I shall turn my secret round and round through my whisper
at a lonely corner of your heart，
even as the cricket among the silent sal trees
turns single-toned beads of its chirping
in the rosary of night.
26
她把微笑的花朵留下给我
拿走了我痛苦的果实。
她拍手笑说
她赢了。
正午有一双疯人似的眼睛，
血红的干渴在天空发狂。
我打开篮子发现
花儿枯死了。
She left me her fower of smile taking my fruit of pain.
She clapped her hands and said， she had won.
The noon had eyes like the mad， red thirst raged in the sky.
I opened the basket and found the fower dead.
27
节日音乐的琴韵
漂浮在空气里。
这不是我静坐深思的时候。
合欢花枝为着
花时已近的兴奋而颤摇，
露的抚摸覆盖着林野。
在林径的仙网上
光和影互相感受着。
长长的草在它花朵里把笑浪送上天空。
我凝望天涯，寻觅着我的诗句。
The fute-sound of a holiday music
foats in the air.
It is not the time for me to sit and brood alone.
The shiuli branches shiver
with the thrill of an impending fowertime，
the touch of the dew is over the woodland.
On the fairy web in the forest path
the light and shadow feel each other.
The tall grass sends waves of laughter to the sky in its fowers，
and I gaze upon the horizon， seeking for my song.
28
我俩深深地躺在睡梦的幽暗中；
觉醒的时间到了
等待你最后的一句话。
转过脸来朝着我吧
用你含泪的秋波
使离愁永远美好。
早晨将和它的晨星一同出现
在寂寞的远空。
别离之夜的忧伤已被俘缚在我的毗那琴弦上，
爱的失去的光辉将留织在我的幻象里。
用你自己的手打开那走向
最后的别离之门吧。
We two lay sunk in the dusk of dreams；
the time of awakening has come
waiting for the last word from you
Turn your face to me
and with a tear-dimmed glance
make the sorrow of parting
ever beautiful.
The morning will appear with its early star
On the far-distant sky of loneliness.
The pain of this farewell night has been captured in my vina-strings.
The lost glory of love will remain woven in my visions.
Open with your own hands the door
towards fnal separation.
29
我的心悠然地随着在远空下的莲花河[24]一同曲折流走。在她的对岸上伸展着沙滩，与世无关地，在它庄严的荒芜中目空一切。
在这边护杂着竹子、芒果树、老榕；倾颓的茅舍；巨干的莲叶桐；池坡上的芥园；沟径边的甘蔗田；依恋着静寂时光的蓝靛园的断垣，一行行的木麻黄日夜地在废园中低语。
宗室的人们住在这分裂成“之”字形的崎岖的岸上，给他们的山羊开出一处小小的牧场；在旁边的高地上，市场仓库波浪形的屋瓦，不住地向太阳瞪视。整个村庄颤抖地站着，畏惧这无情的河水。
这条骄傲的河在古书上有她的名字，在她的血管里奔泛着恒河的圣流。她总是冷冷淡淡地，她没有承认而只是容忍了她两旁的房地，她的威仪中反映着山岳庄严的沉默与海洋广阔的寂寥。
有一次，我找到她幽僻处的一个小岛的坡上系住了船，远离一切的俗务。我在清晓晨星发亮以前就睁开眼睛，我睡在七仙星高照的屋顶上。漠不相关的溪水从我寂寞的日子旁边流过，就像旅客走经路旁房舍中的哀乐，却不起什么感触。
如今我在青春将逝的日子里，我出走到这处平地上，灰暗没有树木，只剩有一个孤零的小点，那高起的绿阴之下的山达尔村。
我有小古巴伊河[25]作我的芳邻。她有世家的门第。她质朴的名字是和无数年代的山达尔村妇的喧笑杂谈混在一起的。
在她和这村庄的亲近之中，土地和水并没有不睦的裂痕，她很容易地把此岸的言语传给彼岸。亚麻开花的田地和稻秧一样和她随便接触。当道路到了她水边忽然转折的时候，她大方地让行人跨过她清澈潺潺的水流。
她的谈吐是小家的谈吐，不是学者的语言。她的律调和土地和水是同宗的，她的流水对于大地上的黄绿的财富毫不嫉妒。她在光明和阴影中穿掠的体态是苗条翩婉的，她拍着手轻轻跳跃。
在雨天，她的手脚就变野了，像村姑们喝醉了麻胡酒一样，但即使在她放纵的时候，她也从不冲破或是淹没了她的近岸；只在她嬉笑奔走的时候，以她裙子戏弄的舞旋扫着岸边。
在中秋，她的水变清了，她的水流变瘦了，显露出水底沙粒苍白的闪光。她的贫乏并没有使她羞愧，因为她的财富不是自大，她的贫困也不小气。
在不同的心情中，他们带着自己的美德，就像一个女孩子有时珠围翠绕地舞蹈着，有时静坐着眼藏倦意，唇含情笑。
古巴伊河在脉搏中找到了和我的诗句相同的节奏，就是与富有音乐的语言和日常工作时间嘈杂的琐事，结成伙伴的节奏。
它的韵律并不使拿着弓箭闲游的男孩失望；它和木柴市场上满载稻草的车声合拍；它和挑着陶器的，一条扁担两只筐，一只小黄狗亲热地追随着他的影子的那个工人的吁喘合拍；它随着那个每月领三卢比的薪金，举着破伞的乡村教师疲惫的步伐一同移动着。
I dly my mind follows the sinuous sweep of the Padma roaming under a distant sky. On the further side of hers stretches the sand-bank， insensitive to the living world， defant in its sublime inutility.
On this side crowd the bamboo， the mango tree， the patriarchal banian； the obsolete hut in ruins； the aged jack tree of a massive trunk； the mustard feld on the slope of the pond； the cane bush round the ditch by the lane； the remnant walls of an indigo plantation clinging to a silenced time， its row of casuarinas murmuring day and night in the forsaken garden.
The colony of Rajbanshis dwell there near the rugged bank fractured into zigzags， offering a scanty pasture to their goats； in the adjacent upland the corrugated roofs of the market storehouses keep staring hard at the sun.
The whole village stands shuddering in constant fear of the heartless stream.
The proud river has her name in the venerable texts； through her veins runs the sacred current off the Ganges.
She remains remote. The homesteads she passes by are tolerated by her， not ricognised； her stately manner has a response in it to the majestic silence of the mountain and the large loneliness of the sea.
Once I had my boat secured at the landing slope of one of her islands in an isolated distance， far from all responsibilities.
I opened my eyes before the gaze of the morning star in the dawn， and slept on the roof under the constellation of the seven sages.
The heedless water ran by the edge of my desolate days， even as the traveller walking close to the joys and sorrows of the wayside homes， yet free from their appeal.
Now at the end of my young days I have come away to this plain here， grey and bare of trees， allowing a small detached spot for the swelling green of the shadow-sheltered Santal village.
I have for my neighbor the tiny river Kopai， She lacks the distinction of ancient lineage， The primitive name of hers is mixed up with the loud laughtering prattle of the Santal women of countless ages.
There is no gap for discord between the land and water in her intimacy with the village and she easily carries the whisper of her one bank to the other. The blossoming fax feld is in indulgent contact with her as the young shoots of rice.