Gabriel Sumon

Winter passed away with its personal victory and loss. Her business, charm, motionlessness, rigidness, dreaminess, sensitivity couldn't touch me. Spring's youthful breeze could have touched me.

They wanted to touch me. I looked back. A red ant's death made me fanciless. The hope of the blissful leaf to grow as a new leaf made me hopeful. I have touched the heart of grassy plants long. Winter is the charm of morning later a yellowish foggy shawl.
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Leaves don't have signs as it itself is a sing - an airy whisper. As I was dropping down the bewildered day of hearkening birds chirping to the pond and thinking why am I here? The flash of lighting that lost in the woods leaving marks on the leaves - what was her appellation! That has in her eyes enshrouded museum, stars slumbered mystery. I learned these sleepless verses from the hearty scratches of the birds' notes written on the buds vein. Hunters' fright of the scenes lingers on the feathers - serenity yawns, looks back and again it walks toward its infallible attachment for balks. The covered shadow which lies in the deepest part of the Bungalow doesn't have any kissed keepsake. I don't have any habitation; I don't have any legacy. I have in my palms an esoteric blueprint of museum that was painted in aerate sunny house. As I came near the pond, I see no footprints. Said I will see but I couldn't baptize in foggy spells of museum. And as I went to see dear in the wood - found myself standing inside me. (my mind is referred to me)

[Translated by: Nepa Leya Biswas]
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You got a teen!
I got a thing!
Way…
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