Winding my way to Thee

(3509) Chandahara mor ektara

My one-stringed lute, rhythmless,
Toward You it goes racing.
With rent hope in unspoken tongue,
It wants to get You only.

For getting or not getting of the realm above,
With brightness and a thrill is the lamp of thought.
The jeweler of psyche, illumination's essence,
At Paradise He makes swoon perpetually.

I've gone on mistaking what I've craved, what I've gained;
There's no end of desire, I have known the same.
From where forehead's affixed bindi is kept stored,
Existence and progress pray for nectar of happiness.

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