City lights or country mornings
Friends or enemies- so well organised
No, these cannot be the truth
That I want.
Truth was like the mist fallen
On a distant mountain flower
Truth was like the delicate poem I am yet to write
Truth was that distant glory
Your bare desolate hand
Resting on the balcony.
But truth it seems-always evades
A human story
The essence of the mountain flower
Evanescent and so solitary.
(Your bare desolate hand
Resting on the balcony....Jibanananda Das's Nogno Nirjan Hat)