Immortal and undecaying these poems, I know, will die one day;
one day all fame and immortality will fall flat among the debris.
The Himalayas, the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China
will be flying in the air like the light dry skins of onions.
The eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned;
upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars
will be falling down ceaselessly. Alas! where will be lost
for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and
paintings earned through thousand years?
When these poems will die one day; when all fame and immortality
will fall flat one day among the debris; when the Himalayas,
the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China will be flying
in the air like the light dry skins of onions; when
the eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned; when
upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars
will be falling down ceaselessly; alas, when where will be lost
for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and
paintings earned through thousand years; that day, o God,
pour down those poems into my soul, listening to which,
all the nymphs and inhabitants of Paradise will start
dancing in joy.
I walk bearing such a soul which plays like a flute,
sings like a cuckoo, runs stirring murmuring sounds
like a spring and dances unfolding its feathers
like a pea-cock. If I were not submerged utterly
into the darkness of the worldly life, my soul
would play such a way, your sky would start trembling;
it would sing such a way, the passers-by would remain
standing by speechless; it would run stirring murmuring sound
such a way, poems after poems would fall down into the souls
of the poets; and it would dance unfolding its feathers
such a way, the eyes of the beauty-lovers would be dazzled
in wonder. My soul is, as it were, a cuckoo that has
mistakenly entered a city; it sings songs but the outcry
of the machine-monsters does not let them enter
the ears of lords and ladies.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
[Dedicated to Aung San Suu Kyi, the greatest Fraud of all times]
Darkness like Halagu Khan is running
taking sword in hand;
Light is fleeing raising its tail.
The decorated dream-city will lose its
electricity for ever;
in all directions, the slogan of hyenas
will be heard only.
Going to the shade of Bodhi Tree,
I asked Gautama Buddha,
'By tasting which poisonous fruit,
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in massacre
in Myanmar? '
Hanging his head, said Gautama, 'Darkness.'
Going to Bethlehem, I asked Jesus Christ,
'By drinking which grape-juice,
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in massacre in Mosul,
Baghdad and Syria singing of democracy? '
Hanging his head, said Jesus, 'Darkness.'
Going to the holy home of Moses,
I bowed down my head and said, 'Would you
tell me, by eating which Manna and Salwa
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in killing children
and women in holy Palestine? '
Hanging his head, said Moses, 'Darkness.'
Going to Mathura city, I said to Lord Krishna,
'Please tell me, by eating which food
offering to deity, your disciples have become
insane and have been involved in massacre
in Kashmir, Delhi and Gujarat? '
Hanging his head, said Krishna, 'Darkness.'
Darkness like Halagu Khan is running
taking sword in hand;
Light is fleeing raising its tail.
Again the days of darkness have descended on earth.
I have been searching Abdul-Muttalib's son
Abdullah's house in Pharaoh's city—
in such a thick darkness, no doubt,
the Sun of the desert had risen
in the lap of Amina!
[Translated by the poet from Bengali]
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
My kids ask me, 'O dad,
why don't we have home?
Why do we, like gypsies,
from place to place roam?
See, birds fly; before night
they come back in nest;
Only we have no home
on earth to take rest.'
How do I tell my kids:
one day I too had
a country; when I remember
it, I feel so sad!
How do I tell them: the
rich robbers of earth,
like dragons, have swallowed
the place of my birth?
They come in the name of
democracy; so
we salute them, because
to democracy, who can say ‘No'?
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
Immortal and undecaying these poems, I know, shall die one day; one day all fame and immortality shall fall flat among the debris. The Keokaradang, the Himalayas, the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China shall be flying in the air like the light dry skins of onions. The eyes of Newton and Einstein shall be upturned; upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars shall be falling down ceaselessly. Alas, where will be lost for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and paintings earned through thousand years!
When these poems will die one day; when all fame and immortality shall fall flat one day among the debris; when the Keokaradang, the Himalayas, the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China will be flying in the air like the light dry skins of onions; when the eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned; when upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars will be falling down ceaselessly; alas, when where will be lost for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and paintings earned through thousand years; that day, o God, pour down those poems into my soul, listening to which, all the nymphs and inhabitants of Paradise will start dancing in joy.
I walk bearing such a soul which plays like a flute, sings like a cuckoo, runs stirring murmuring sounds like a spring and dances unfolding its feathers like a pea-cock. If I were not submerged utterly into the darkness of the worldy life, my soul would play such a way, your sky would start trembling; it would sing such a way, the passers-by would remain standing by speechless; it would run stirring murmuring sound such a way, poems after poems would fall down into the souls of the poets; and it would dance unfolding its feathers such a way, the eyes of the beauty-lovers would be dazzled in wonder. My soul is, as it were, a cuckoo who has mistakenly entered a city; he sings songs but the outcry of the machine-monsters does not let them enter the ears of lords and ladies.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
An innocent boy leaving the lap of mother
opened his fearful eyes in the war-trodden world
and asked in a depressed voice, 'Where have I come? '
I told him the name of the earth.
The boy looked at the corners of the earth
and with wonder and pain, seeing the towns and paths
full of corpses and heart-rending bloods
further asked, 'Will you tell me
how man lives in this hell? '
I said to him, 'Oh, it's a shame!
Where is man in this hell? '
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
I can go to war with those this very day
who are against hunger,
who are against death
and who take arms against the invaders.
Boars are destroying all the crops of life
entering the fields of civilization;
jackals are devouring the corpses of our kith and kin
digging their graves;
vultures are singing the rotten withered songs of democracy
clutching the map of our heart;
leaving my home for ever, I can go away with those
who are against these boars,
who are against these jackals and vultures
and who draw irritated hands
against their aggressive hands.
Now my heart cries
saying war war. Saying war war,
my heart bursts into anger
like an atom bomb.
Life is nothing but war,
and living without war means mere death.
The river whose course is serpentine
is the most beautiful of all.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
Going to slaughter the death like a bull felling it on ground
binding tightly its four legs, we have made our earth
full of death more.
Going to uproot the shrubs of weeds,
we have filled our life-land with more weeds.
Going to destroy the darkness with all its roots,
we have fallen down slipping into the darkest ditch.
Our wisdom is now eating our whole body
pecking at all limbs like a vulture.
All our books and idle times of our laboratories
are biting our soul and existence, raising their hoods
like a cobra.
We do not know where we have reached
running like a bull tearing its rope.
Our science and technology are pouring black heat
upon our skulls.
Our dull eyes are getting overturned again and again
like an unhappy housewife hanging herself
with a ceiling fan.
Even the eyes of our heart are growing feeble and inactive
by getting fade every day.
Spitting upon all our rotten knowledge, wit,
welfare and blessing,
spitting upon our democracy twinging like a septic boil
and spitting upon all our destructive inventions,
we are eagerly waiting like swallows,
like the thirsty fish of a dry pond
or like the cracked fields of Summer-
if it rains!
if peace descends!
if the last white pigeon comes
flying from the distant sky-civilization out of this sky
engulfed with bombing planes,
carrying the message of peace!
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
When, like cancer, people fear war and death
as a rat fears a cat;
when people detest war and death
like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell
which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia;
when a bright city crowded like a river full to the brim
gets vacant all on a sudden just after seeing a gun-
what can the city be named then?
Avoiding war is the nature of the Queen of Sheba
because a woman means getting boiled like an egg
lying under the aggressive virility of a man
surrendering completely to his lust;
and a man is always like the King Solomon,
at whose beckoning with finger the Queen of Sheba
along with her state gets belonged to him.
But what a city is it, where the disgraced men
hearing the name of war enter the latrines running fast
like the patients of diarrhoea?
What an ill-fated country is it, where men and women
calumniate the war in their sky-rending chorus?
In ancient days women chose only knights and warriors
as their bridegrooms; and for their beloved heroes,
they made ready their shields and swords
so that they could leap into the fathomless beauty of war
if the battle-drum was heard beating.
When they returned to their homes, their wives welcomed them laying their hearts and tears of eyes under their feet.
If they got martyred, the wives felt proud of losing their husbands, as the full Moon feels proud of sacrificing
her light for the earth.
When a woman gets inclined only to her body,
when no noble thought can enter her brain
except the thought of her ****** only then
she clasps her bed-mate like pincers
listening to the sweet slogan of a procession.
But tell me, o *** men, which cancer makes men
such boneless like earth-worms?
Being affected by which tuberculosis, men start shouting heart and soul like ***** saying 'Save!Save!’
listening to the maddening war-song in the air and the sky?
When people detest war and death like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia, that habitation then
can be called a country of worthless people
where the sun should not rise ever,
it should not rain
and crops should not grow in the fields.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
My earth moves round my three kids round the clock.
I need no new stars more; they are my all.
No stream is so much sweet as their voice is;
No nightingale so soothing as their call.
I have seen no flowers on earth like them.
No gem I know as precious as they are.
Like hymn, day and night I recite their names.
Within me they stay, they don't remain far.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC