Sorrow is a child’s art
sketched on tracing paper;
sometimes it draws line straight,
inclined, and
some other time conical, square, and
spiral;
yet again spreading in circles
it gets lost in its own endlessness.
Some people think
sorrow is born of love
but love starts from there
where sorrow passes through a trial.
No one knows whether sorrow is smaller; or
love bigger;
I know only this –
that a man deprived of a woman’s love
is a destitute;
actually sorrow is neither a woman
nor love;
sorrow unites these two and then separates;
like time unites the end with eternity –
or is sorrow a triangle, or
always the unending distance
between two parallel lines?

English translation by Bina Biswas