Amar thahor nai go mon-bepari.
Ebar tridharaye bujhi dobe amar tori.
Jemni dnari-malla beyara
Temni majhi dishehara,
Kon dike je baye tahara,
Amar pari deowa kothin holo bhari.
Ekti nodir tinti dhara,—
She nodite nai kul-kinara;
Shetha bege tufan boye,
Dekhe lage bhoy,
Dingi bnachabar upaye ki kori.
Kotha he doyal hori,
A pni eshe hou kandari;
Tomaye smoron kori
Lalon koy, je n o bipake na pori
[I’m without sight, O merchant of the mind, I fear this time my boat will
sink in the three streams. Just as the oarsman-boatmen are unruly, so is the
helmsman confounded; which direction are they rowing in, my journey
has become very difficult.
One river has three streams,— this river is endless; a mighty storm blows
there, I’m alarmed at the sight, how do I save my boat?
Where are you merciful Hori, come and be my helmsman; it is in your
name I set sail, Lalon pleads, let me not get into trouble.]
Jonmo-chhnada noitka tar naiko shnada mara
Jol jhore bane bane nona bane jirnojora.
Tate gabkali nai kalapati
Srishtidhorer gothon kora.
Manob-torir chhidro nota tipne-phnasa modhye phata
Haye re jol lithe phata ghoche na.
Bhuluk-mara nayer bhogno gnura
Dali-poro perek-noro tokta chera.
Bnaker goraye chnow ayepani chhneche mori dinrojoni
Haye re gnaje dei chhnera kani tobn dobe dohora
Jole jaye re bheshey jolui khoshey dekhe holam dishehara.
Gorechhilo kathe kathe pilon kete perek ente
Haye re jol uthe rasta chhute charidigete boye dhara.
Kubir choron bhebe bole tori chhnechte chhnechte holam shara.
[My boat is perennially leaking and none can plug the leak; with every tide water rushes in, the salty tide has worn the boat to its skeletal frame. There is neither resin nor lacquer (in this boat) created by Him who sustains who all. This human-boat has nine orifices, tied together at the naval and in its midst is a crack-stomach, alas! The water keeps filling up, but the crack-appetites are never satisfied. Struck by the lightning of ignorance, the boat lies in tatters, its roof is shaky, its nails have become loose and the planks have cracked. At the curve of the hull water keeps seeping in, I grow tired trying to drain it night and day; alas! I try to plug the leak with a rag, yet the boat keeps sinking; there is water everywhere, the sail falls off, and I ’m left directionless. He had built it by joining wood to wood having attached planks with nails; alas! the rising water now runs everywhere on the streets too. Seeking shelter at Choron’s feet, Kubir says, I’m tired of draining my boat.]
Source: Manjita Mukharjee, Reading the Metaphors in Baul Songs: Some Reflections on the Social History of Rural Colonial Bengal, PhD. Thesis, SOAS, University of London, 2009. 171, 173-74.