IT IS NIGHT.
The travellers spread their mats on the ground under the banyan tree.
A gust of wind blows out the lamp
and the darkness deepens like a sleep into a swoon.
Someone from the crowd suddenly stands up
and pointing to the leader with merciless finger breaks out:
'False prophet, thou hast deceived us!'
Others take up the cry one by one,
women hiss their hatred and men growl.
At last one bolder than others suddenly deals him a blow.
They cannot see his face, but fall upon him in a fury of destruction and hit him till he lies prone upon the ground his life extinct.
The night is still, the sound of the distant waterfall comes muffled and a faint breath of jasmine floats in the air.

অনেক তিয়াষে করেছি ভ্রমণ,
      জীবন কেবলই খোঁজা।অনেক বচন করেছি রচন,
      জমেছে অনেক বোঝা।
যা পাই নি তারি লইয়া সাধনা
      যাব কি সাগরপার?
যা গাই নি তারি বহিয়া বেদনা
      ছিঁড়িবে বীণার তার?

AS THE TENDER twilight covers in its fold of dusk-veil marks of
hurt and wastage from the dusty day's prostration, even so
let my great sorrow for thy loss. Beloved, spread one
perfect golden-tinted silence of its sadness o'er my life.
Let all its jagged fractures and distortions, all unmeaning
scattered scraps and wrecks and random ruins, merge in
vastness of some evening stilled with thy remembrance,
filled with endless harmony of pain and peace united.