Madhura

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Emily Brontë
“I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”
Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Franz Kafka
“Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one’s own self.”
Franz Kafka

Vivekananda
“Devotion to duty is the highest form of worship of God.”
Swami Vivekananda

Jibanananda Das
“অদ্ভুত আঁধার এক এসেছে এ-পৃথিবীতে আজ,
যারা অন্ধ সবচেয়ে বেশি আজ চোখে দেখে তারা;
যাদের হৃদয়ে কোনো প্রেম নেই—প্রীতি নেই—করুণার আলোড়ন নেই
পৃথিবী অচল আজ তাদের সুপরামর্শ ছাড়া।
যাদের গভীর আস্থা আছে আজো মানুষের প্রতি
এখনো যাদের কাছে স্বাভাবিক ব'লে মনে হয়
মহৎ সত্য বা রীতি, কিংবা শিল্প অথবা সাধনা
শকুন ও শেয়ালের খাদ্য আজ তাদের হৃদয়।

A strange darkness has come upon the world today.
They who are most blind now see,
Those whose hearts lack love, lack warmth, lack pity's stirrings,
Without their fine advice, the world today dare not make a move.
They who yet possess an abiding faith in man,
To whom still now high truths or age-old customs,
Or industry or austere effort all seem natural,
Their hearts are victuals for the vulture and the jackal.

Translated by: Clinton B. Seely”
Jibanananda Das, বনলতা সেন

E.E. Cummings
“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”
E.E. Cummings, Selected Poems

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