Literature is a fertile land
Whose Lordship you have claimed unchallenged,
Like a Zamindar at Shahzadapur or Patishwar.
The trees of words that you planted
In our premises of feelings
Or the tune that you rendered
In the strings of our hearts
Cannot be denied for I do not
Have enough strength for the refusal.
Your friendship with readers a century later though
Binds me from within and denies me
Any reasons to dissociate myself
From your universal thoughts
For those are enshrined in my heart.
The thoughts that you have implanted
In me remains undiminished.
My new packages of words
Are filled in with nonsensical rhymes
People understand my helpless situation
So they look for the robed Kabitawallah
From Jorashanko, whose jingle bells
Awake the old children too
And then from his pockets
Come the magical poems.