The artist returns, but is this any way to go back?
Treading the river bank, where thorns abound
And jagged sandbanks nearby, where the road ends
You call this going back? This isn’t a pleasure jaunt
Leaping suddenly out of a woman’s arms
A tender hand on the brow, moistened letters on the desk
So many things still to be done, all those overtures
But he seems to know it’s too late now to realise his mistake.

Such yearning in the heart, lips that care so much
Still he must go back, must go back
You call this going back? This isn’t a pleasure jaunt
The road ends there
Whoever returns to a strange land? You can go. But return?
Wouldn’t it have been easier to swim?
They’ll all say you’ve made a mistake, artist
An unsatisfied, regretful, enormous mistake.

~ In Memoriam: Sunil Gangopadhyay (1934 – 2012) ~