āĻāĻŦিāϤাāϰ āĻ
āύুāĻŦাāĻĻ Edge By Sylvia Plath The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over. Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty. She has folded Them back into her body as petals Of a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odors bleed From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower . The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone . She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag. āĻĒ্āϰাāύ্āϤে (āĻāĻ্āώāϰিāĻ āĻ
āϰ্āĻĨ) āύাāϰীāĻি āϝেāύ āĻŦāĻšুāĻĻিāύ āϧāϰে āĻ্āϞাāύ্āϤ āĻিāϞ— āĻāĻ āϏে āϏāĻŽ্āĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖ। āĻŽৃāϤāĻĻেāĻšে āĻāĻ āĻ
āĻĻ্āĻুāϤ āĻĒ্āϰāĻļাāύ্āϤি, āϝেāύ āϏāĻŦ āĻšিāϏাāĻŦ āĻŽিāĻে āĻেāĻে āϏāύ্āϧ্āϝাāϰ āĻেāϤāϰ। āϤাāϰ āϏাāĻĻা āĻĒোāĻļাāĻেāϰ āĻাঁāĻে āĻšেāϞেāύীāϝ় āύিāϝ়āϤিāϰ āĻŽāϤো āĻāĻ āĻļুāώ্āĻ āĻāϞো āϧীāϰে āϧীāϰে āύেāĻŽে āĻāϏে। āĻĒা āĻĻুāĻি āϏ্āĻĨিāϰ— āĻŽাāĻি āĻুঁāϝ়ে āĻāĻে, āĻিāύ্āϤু āϝেāύ āĻāϰ āĻোāύো āĻĒāĻĨ āĻŦাāĻ...
āĻĢ্āϰাāύāĻ āĻাāĻĢāĻাāϰ āĻোāĻāĻāϞ্āĻĒ - āĻ āύুāĻŦাāĻĻ/ Short Story Of Franz Kafka - Bengali Translation
āĻাāĻেāϰা āĻāĻŽāϰা āϝেāύ āϤুāώাāϰেāϰ āĻিāϤāϰে āĻĻাঁā§িā§ে āĻĨাāĻা āĻাāĻেāϰ āĻাāĻŖ্āĻĄেāϰ āĻŽāϤো। āĻŦাāĻāϰে āĻĨেāĻে āϤাāĻĻেāϰ āĻāĻŽāύ āĻŽāϏৃāĻŖ āĻŽāύে āĻšāϝ়, āĻāĻŽāύ āĻাāĻŦে āĻļুā§ে āĻĨাāĻে āϤাāϰা, āĻŽāύে āĻšā§ āϝে, āĻšাāϞāĻা āĻāĻ āĻ েāϞাāϤেāĻ āĻŦুāĻি āĻā§িā§ে āϝাāĻŦে। āύা—āϤা āĻšā§ āύা āĻŦোāϧāĻšāϝ়; āϤাāϰা āĻŽাāĻিāϰ āϏāĻ্āĻে āĻĻৃā§āĻাāĻŦে āĻāĻāĻে āĻĨাāĻে, āĻŦিāĻŦাāĻšিāϤ āĻĻāĻŽ্āĻĒāϤিāĻĻেāϰ āĻŽāϤো āĻāϰে, āĻāĻীāϰ āĻŦāύ্āϧāύে āĻāĻŦāĻĻ্āϧ। āĻ
āĻĨāĻ āĻĻেāĻো, āϏেāĻ āĻĻৃā§āϤাāĻ āĻেāĻŦāϞāĻ āĻāĻ āĻŦাāĻš্āϝিāĻ āϰূāĻĒেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻাāĻļ āĻŽাāϤ্āϰ। (āĻāϞāĻŦে) Franz Kafka, āĻĢ্āϰাāύāĻ āĻাāĻĢāĻা