Rasaraj Nath's poem LIVINGWORDS DEADMEN ( Translation of 'Jibitoshabdo Mritomanushera' )

All around me now
living words and
dead men walk
from this life to next--

Me as well...
I can not think anymore 
around my helpless corpse
thousands of ants encircle...

Green as I keep watching
how did it become full of fire
locality as I keep watching
how turned into forest !

Rasaraj Nath's poem EVEN THEN I ( Translation of 'Tathapio Aami' )

I shall write only about myself
though I do not have any
history of that kind
even then, I shall about myself

Am I one of those dead poets
whose haunted souls have become stony calm
with masturbation and surrender ?

From stage to poetry I
from poetry to stage
have returned repeatedly - and
become subject of their stories

I know between rise and fall
human being's frail fear of timewrap

I know
the mountain could not be removed by me
even then I shall give a push
and shall write about myself, my story--

Arup Dutta's poem A STORY ( Translation of 'Ek Kahini' )

I have carried and brought your living corpse
till this distance :
cold night all around
here there is no fire
everybody has gone back
for simultaneous rape and festivity...
I have come so far after crossing dark tunnels
the hurricane of my soul has withered
far away in forest has billowed away
Beethoven's music,
come Dear
in living night once we disrobe ourselves
and mingle with each other
like lights streaming in star's cloud
this body
has become a story today.

Arup Dutta's poem ASHES OF DREAMFALL ( Translation of 'Swapnopatoner Chhai' )

I have entered a heated earth
alone in a crowd of friends and enemies 
air returns after bouncing on chaotic sea waves
pale breaths from fallen leaves
sex starved moon in dark fortnight of female orgasm music
coloured insects descend in this storyless light
and nameless fly species 

I see in the belly of heated earth
unhinged doors of creation
no traveler seeks solace here
uninterrupted language of dawn holds forth the neck-vein
no strange cloud bursts
love's last fall is atomic dusts
mixed in burning grass

My body and soul shiver
in unredeemed heart the hurts are life's only
bloom like incomplete clearance 

This stream of burning alphabets--
stare at lava which can not be crossed
Apollo and Saraswati
not possible to unite in this life
my incomplete letters have burned into ashes
banned music of a lost world,
which covers my incompleteness in pain of loss of grief.

Debojyoti Roy's CONFESSIONS OF A RELIGIOUS OXEN ( Translation of 'Jabanbondi, Dharmer Shnarer' )

People say, I am foolhardy
bohemian, do not have much intelligence
move from this to that locality on my own
when instinct makes a knock behaviour undergoes a change
as if my virility is total farce, serio-comic;
I wag my tail, forage on grass, fire billows inside

Far away from cowsheds' hay and husk's memory
lonely road's dust, tired hooves,
wound on back struck by stones. 
There is no luxury in selecting food;
in my own independent rhythm 
religious people attain emancipation.

Effect of food and sharpness of horns--
their combination result into landslip
on the breast of smiling Shiva's mount in calender.
stoic conduct, with renounced cognition
walking towards Shiv Purana, Upanishad 
I leave behind secret confessions--
this language is blue with poison, revenge similar to cobra

On surface everything is calm, still, reactionless.

Bikash Sarkar's poem THE HEAD OF KANISHKA ( Translation of 'Konishker Matha' )

While we both were about to start a story of unending love
all of a sudden flashed the head of Kanishka
a beam of powerful rays sparkled through his eyes
like terror bubbles flying in air.
Excited, I drew out her palms
she held my hand in horror.
A ghostly meadow sank in a supernatural weather
and the soul of the meadow. 
The queer touch of her soft breast froze my left hand
a touch of her thighs and lips 
made a skeleton spring up in open air...
Her palms made deep throbbing murmur on my hands.
Once she disappeared 
it was only Kanishka's head that was awake
and a beam of powerful rays sparkled through his eyes
like mystery bubbles in air.

Bikash Sarkar's poem THE CALL ( Translation of 'Daak' )

Someone called me, 'Bikash Bikash'
it seemed the call was not for me
the invitation is to a lifeless boulder.
Flowers raise their voices against me. 
Crickets of drunk night have vanished
stabbed in the desolate alley
the wild deers conspire and plot
against me, to murder me.
It appears all calculations are incorrect
as if, a fountain of errors
sprang into action, or else
I am pressed heavily against 
the boulder of errors
like fossils.
Yet a mysterious girl seems to call me
like a fresh breath of breeze, and
she hails me, 'Bikash Bikash'
before she prepares to kill me.