I can’t simply think through my fingers when I write to you. My thought plucks the fresh flowers, Drenches in the rain, Rides the white horses of the advancing tides, Sways like a dingy boat against the streams of river Hooghly, Shakes like the old village bridge when the train passes while its whistle hangs on the silence of the night, Dances in madness and in pure joy, the verdant trees when the gusty storm passes through its branches, Participates in the evening cacophony of retreating birds on the treetop during sundown, Buzzes over the juicy blooming flowers for its nectar, When a baby babbles and entwines her fingers with that of her mother for her undivided attention, When the end of the day, during the dusty sunset herd of cattle retreat to their sheds, When it orbits the sun and travels the moon and stars. …… And then, you know I could write those enchanting words for you, pure and pristine like the colours of the rainbow.