In dark gloomy nights, the shadow that sobs in that corner of alley
And shivers against cold nights of Kolkata in November,
Like a flame that flickers before getting kipped
In the hands of cruel gush of icy air.
The stomachs are empty and emptier are the hopes of quality life.
They do not long for the fish cooked in mustard sauce or a bite of divine Sondesh.
They dream of their five fingers dipped in watery dal and their mouth full of rice.
Rains’ pitter-patter fills the pen of a poet with myriad thoughts
But that hapless spends night praying and watching his whereabouts.
O Holy Lady of Wealth! When those drops of water will roll down your cheeks.
When your hands will light the candles of livelihood in the houses of timid.
They don’t have the ability to decorate their place for your welcome
Nor they can feed you when they have their limited sustenance.
Why you visit only the mansions in Park Street, Ballygunj and Rashbehari
When the downtrodden hearts of gold and emeralds are breathing in open air
In that corner of my alley.