Nazrul Geeti.
No, no, my love, these are not tears you see.
Sleep, only sleep, has dimmed the kohl of my eyes.
At the pale break of night you watch the dew
lie on the lotus leaf, and you suppose
the flower has blossomed out of grief.
This is no more than a winter cloud
brushed by a false and treacherous mist,
an illusion risen wide awake.
No rain has come.
Why, poet? For nothing, nothing at all
did you make yourself the grit in every eye?
Setting out to bring another to tears,
you have wept, in the end, for yourself alone.
Snapshots of the Labyrinth 