Nitya Malakar's poem THESE DAYS SENSE OF ART IN FOOD STANDARD ( Translation of 'Bhater Mandondey Idaning Shilpobodh' )

If hands and legs are thrown about it might be useful to poetry.
But I have not been able to write poetry by throwing about words,
these days with sense of Art, only rice is eaten--
each day, lying down in dark helpless bed
                  I retain light after purchasing it from fireflies 
each day pen's needle enjoys luxury, I can not pierce to the root
on the breast and back of hesitating flower lady
why it is not possible for a moment today, self-aggrandizement 
                                                                                in poetry
Isn't there anything else other than rice that dowses hunger's fire

Where have you brought me to this foreign land
                                           in corn green golden Bengal,
how would I bear so much rice,
                                      so much snacks
does not enter my brain--- in what aspiration you
exiled me in golden Bengal ?

I carefully walk on dyke, as I would go to town--
as if thinking head hangs in mind's Nabadwip, Coochbehar or 
                                                                                 Kolkata.

Actually, I do not have that much faith below bellybutton
rather, what a strange dinner beneath clear moonlight,
                                                                    day end stories
seem fine, in this racy Coachland of flowery youth--
               diurnal sense of Art, eating rice, air pleasure;
is not possible even today, false words, in poetry 
                                                         self aggrandizement.

Why are you hesitating, place your hand on heart :
in corn green golden Bengal---
               in vegetating rice fragrance today flesh will become
                                                                                     poetry.