Dear Robindronath Tagore Poem by Md Fazlul karim

Many call you Prananath,
Today, the sun sent vapor, and clouds suddenly arrived.
Clouds in debate, what a lament! A roar!
Had you been here, you could have written a beautiful poem,
Yet, I feel you might not have created anything at all.

I was born in my mother's womb, enduring ten months,
Cradled first by the midwife—my mother deprived.
Was your birth also in your mother's womb?

At the opening moment of your life, when the sun dims-
Asking questions with no answers.
And I hear that even at life's last,
You asked the same questions but never found the answers.

Such strange things in this world,
With so many questions—what's the point? It's all just empty chatter!
For those whose sleep is disturbed by the cuckoo's call—
Their life begins at that moment.
The cricket's song, or the watchman's flute,
The end of the night marks the end of life.

Now, let me ask you a real question,
How many mothers do you have?
One, two, three, or perhaps more?

In the land of Bangladesh, questions have arisen against you,
Where you called one 'Mother'—was it your goddess mother?
Your nation's mother? Or your birth mother?

I know you have turned to dust,
But return and speak to me, explain it all,
To the barren minds of men,
And to all mothers.
Or, whisper it to me,
For I am here, listening to your dust.
Wait, did a bug crawl into my ear?

Never mind, it need not be said.
Now, my mind filled with dread,
Fearing that pest will enter slowly,
Filling my life with the absurdities of sorrow.
Will you return?