Emotions and Feelings

Struggle


You lived for so long,
Now once put your life on the line;
The same hands you use for only prayers,
With weapons let once those shine.


Tearing off the crescent from sky,
Decorate your flag that is crimson red;
Let the seniles live longer
You offer your precious life, go ahead.


[Original: Shadhona (Bengali) ,
Translation: Mohammad Omar Farooq]

Song of the Do-Nothing

My mind as the Bee today runs a-field
amid the blossoms of the grass in
the field of mator-shuti -

On this winter morn enamored of the
sun-light.

I like to accompany the restless butterfly
From bud to bud
In the field of flowery Maw plants.
And at night I hear the farewell wails

of Amman paddy in the meadow
Who's today taking a round amid
Kusha grasses along the bank of the dead river?
Lo! her yellow skirt gets entangled

among aroher flowers
She wears t hat Babla flower as her
nose-top.
And around her body is her cloth
of green Aparajita.
I am keen for a touch of that fair unknown!

She send me while walking
speechless message of her eyes.

And so my mind as the Bee runs
in wild ecstasy amid the blossoms
of the grass in the field of Mator-Shuti.

[Translation: Abdul Hakim]

Song of the Student

We are the power, we are the strength,
We the band of students.
The stormy wind makes obeisance tonus
And clouds and airships bow
Before us, the students class.


We can move in the darkness of the night
Needing no guiding light.
We walk with bare feet
Ever ready to dangers meet.
We move like a terrific flood
Making the stony earth scarlet with our blood.
Throughout the ages
Our blood has wet this soil.
We are not afraid of work or toil,
We the student class.


We hold the reins of the horse
Of the great King Deat.
Our lifeless corpse
Will write the history of our fights.
In the country of laughter, whenever needed,
We bring tears, bitter and cold.
We the students, mighty bold.


When everybody gives wise counsel
We are the people who err.
When the cautious one builds embankments
We sit still and do not stir.
We are the dare-devil youth
Who care for none,
We make our path slippery with blood,
We the student class.


The light of knowledge shines in our eyes,
And in our hearts burn boble ideas.
On our lips dwell no lies,
Which only proclaim
Effortlessly and with ease
The call of all times,
That has survived through war and peace,
And we have made the white lilies
Purple with our blood,
We the students; who move like a mighty flood.


In these terrible days of revolution
We are eager to march ahead and fight,
So that light may burst out
Ending the eternal darkness of the night.
In us seeks the twentieth century
Her emancipation.
With our tears of glory



The mother-earth clothes herself
In resignation.
There is no fear of death for us,
The mighty student class.


We dream of a joyous future, gay and bright,
Built on hope and love,
The milky-way in the sky
Shows us our path, straight and wide.
Let the dream of millions come true and right,
Let them see the splendid sight
Through the eyes of us.
The student class.


Translation: Kabir Chowdhury

Song ( Ajo Dhoroni)

Half of the world is dark.
The other haIf has light -
It heralds the dawn of
Someone's sorrowful night.


Half is hard earth,
The other half is water;
Half is full of thorn,
The other half is flower.


Half is melody,
The other half is wine,
Half abounds in hope -
Lonely hearts pine.


Half remains hidden,
The other half is known;
Half is full of love,
The other half disown.


Half of it is dawn,
The other half is twilight-
Half of it is dew,
And a moiety sunlight.


[Translation: Syed Mujibul Huq]

Song ( Ajo Dhoroni)

Half of the world is dark.
The other haIf has light -
It heralds the dawn of
Someone's sorrowful night.


Half is hard earth,
The other half is water;
Half is full of thorn,
The other half is flower.


Half is melody,
The other half is wine,
Half abounds in hope -
Lonely hearts pine.


Half remains hidden,
The other half is known;
Half is full of love,
The other half disown.


Half of it is dawn,
The other half is twilight-
Half of it is dew,
And a moiety sunlight.


[Translation: Syed Mujibul Huq]

Save Me From All Pettiness

Save me from all smallness
O my Lord, the Graciousness!
Teach me, O Lord, no sin is worse
than the sin of pettiness.
Even if I am a sinner over hundred births,
even if for eons I sojourn in hell,
Even then, I know Lord, there is forgiveness from you.
But is there forgiveness for pettiness? My Lord, Pray tell!

Please, my Lord, in my heart
don't constrict the space.
Friends, foes or strangers alike
Let my heart be able to embrace.

Let me not speak ill of others, nor harbor envy;
At others' joy, let be lustrous my soul,
Let me weep for that wretched-hapless
whose heart is like a wormhole!

[Original: Bengali, Translator: Dr. Mohammad Omar Farooq ]

Save Me From All Pettiness

Save me from all smallness
O my Lord, the Graciousness!
Teach me, O Lord, no sin is worse
than the sin of pettiness.
Even if I am a sinner over hundred births,
even if for eons I sojourn in hell,
Even then, I know Lord, there is forgiveness from you.
But is there forgiveness for pettiness? My Lord, Pray tell!

Please, my Lord, in my heart
don't constrict the space.
Friends, foes or strangers alike
Let my heart be able to embrace.

Let me not speak ill of others, nor harbor envy;
At others' joy, let be lustrous my soul,
Let me weep for that wretched-hapless
whose heart is like a wormhole!

[Original: Bengali, Translator: Dr. Mohammad Omar Farooq ]

Robbers and Dacoits

Who calls you a dacoit, friend,
Who calls you a robber?
All around dacoits reign today,
And thieves prosper.


Who is judging the robbers and the dacoits?
Who is the lord of justice?
Ask him, friend, who is not a dacoit today,
Who is not a robber chief.


My lord, raise your mace of justice and punish
Those wealthy and the rich who thrived
Robbing the humble poor and the deprive.
Today the greater the robber, the bigger the thief


and the cleverer the cheat
The more honourable, the more distinguished

and the more dignified his seat
In the assembly of nations.
All around
Bricks red with the blood of the subjects
Go to raise the king's palaces
And the factories of the gangster-rich flourish
Rendering thousands homeless.
The cunning devils start mills
Where men are ground to pieces,
Where from hungry millions emerge,
Sucked dry like sugarcane,
Bereft of their juices.

Squeezing out the life blood of millions of men
The mill owners amass vast wealth in their hidden den.
The money lenders grow rich
Robbing the helpless,
And the Zamindars on joy rides go
Rendering the weak homeless.
The greedy merchants in this earth
Have built a house of prostitution of wealth
There the vice Saki dances and drinks
The gold demon's health.

Losing health, food, life, hope, language and all
Bankrupt man is heading to a terrible fall.
There is no way of escape
The gold-hungry monsters have dug
Deep invincible moats all around,
The world today is a prison sound
With cruel gangsters working as sentinel.
Thieves are friends here
Cheats are comrades dear.

Who calls you a dacoit, dear friend?
Who calls you a robber?


You may have stolen money or goods,
But you have not dug a dagger

In some one's tender-heart.
You may be thieves all right
But not inhuman like the so-called great
You can turn Valmikis yet
When true men you meet
You who are the Ratnakars.

[Original: Chor-Dakaat; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]

Rise Up, O Farmer!

O farmer, where is tile smile of your face?
Where is' your shepherd's bamboo flute'!
Where is your jute?
Who plunders it from your stock on riverside?
Who robs you of huge golden paddy grown in your fields?
The empty corn-bin in your courtyard resembles a husband-less daughter
lamenting in her father's home.
Your rural fields present winter-crops as though painted, why
does your son ask for salt and green chilies while eating?
It seems that the government has taxed on your curry too.
Have your sugar-canes been sweetened by the juice of your tears?
Who have drunk milk exploiting your cow?
Alas, your milk pot docs not hold even the starch of boiled rice.


Your younger child with high fever is healed up,
since he is sleeping in tile graveyard.
And he seems to drag her elder sister towards the grave, too.
The girl is calling him deliriously.
Mother replaces milk will oyster,
father weeps on his way to field burying his son;
around him tile fields are full of paddy and the sky is full of delight.
It seems that today's horizon is red by sucking' a farmer's blood.
Fields overflow with paddy, markets with goods,
the wharps with jute-loaded boats.


Who eats away tile crops of your field,who
are those swarm of locusts?
Why are you so destitute in this realm of merrymaking?
Why does the son of your home go to the grave?
Your cattle grazes in the vast pastures, but you get no milk,
O farmer, your hopes of living have gone away long before,
how do you stand lamentations beside a tomb?
Can't you wake up the burning of thunder in your arid bones?
How long shall you see with eyes wide open the theft by burglars?
Don't you possess a bamboo-stick even?
You may have no blood in your body, yet we want all your bones.
The plunderer robbing you of your boiled rice day
and night has ascended to affluency sucking your blood.


Your bone shall cause the bones of those plunderers decay,
and your rib-bones will turn into war swords.
Allah, the Benevolent, gives water to your fields,
energy to your wind to bloom flowers,
sun and moon rise up to grow your crops, would
those gifts of Allah again be plundered by that demon?
Though the sky is all clear, there is no hope.
Though Khuda's mercy comes in torrents,
you don't reach it. So raise up your hands straight,
that would give you instant strength.
Your crops shall fill your granary, and God shall bless you.


[Original: Otth re chashi; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]

Poverty


O poverty, thou hast made me great.
Thou hast made me honoured like Christ
With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me
Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe
My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue.
Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword.

O proud saint, thy terrible fire
Has rendered my heaven barren.
It has prematurely dried beauty.
My feelings and my life.
Time and again I stretched my lean, cupped hands
To accept the gift of the beautiful.
But those hungry ones always came before me.
And did snatch it away ruthlessly,
Now my word of imagination is
Dry as a vast desert.
And my own beautiful!


My yellow-stalked pensive desire
Wants to blossom like the fragrant shefali.
But thou cruel one
Dost ruthlessly break the soft stalk
As the woodcutter chopsthe branches
Off the trees. My heart grows tender
Like the autumn morning
It fills with love
Like the dew-laden earth.
But thou art the blazing sun
And thy fiery heart dries up the tiny dropp of the earth
I grow listless in the shadowy skirt of the earth
And my dreams of beauty and goodness vanish!
With a bitter tongue thou askest,
'What's the use of nectar?
It has no sting, no intoxication, no madness it.
The search for heaven's secred drink
Is not for the in this sorrow-filled earth.

Thou art the serpent, born in pai.
Thou will sit in the bower of thorns
And weave the garland of flowers.
I put on thy forehead the sing
Of suffering and woe.'


So I sing, I weave a garland,
While my throat is on fire,
And my serpent daughter bites me all over!


O unforgiving Durbasha! thou wanderest
From door to door with thy beggar's bowl.
Thou goes to the peaceful abode of
Some sleeping happy couple



And sternly callest, 'O fool,
Knowest thou, that this earth is not anybody's
Pleasure bower for luxury adn ease.
Here is sorrow and separation
And a hundred wants and disease.
Under the arms of the beloved
There are thorns in the bed,
And now must thou prepare
To savour these.' The unhappy home
Is shattered in a moment,
And woeful laments rend
The air. The light of joy is extinguished
And endless nights descends.

Thou walkest the road alone

Lean, hungry and starved.

Suddenly some sight makes thy eyebrows

Arch in annoyance and thine eyes

Blazeforth-fires of anger!

And lo! famine, pestilence and tornado

Visit the country, pleasuregarden burn,

Palaces tumble, thy law

Knows nothing but death and destruction.

Nor for thee the license of courtesy.

Thou seekest the unashaamed revelation of stark nakedness.

Thou knowest no timid hesitation or polite embarrassment

Thou dost raise high the lowly head.

At thy signal the travellers on the road to death

Put round their neck the fatal noose

With cheerful smile on their faces!

Nursing the fire of perennial want in their bosom

They worship the god of death in fiendish glee!

Thou tramplest the crown of Lakshmi

Under thy feet. What tune

Dost thou want to wiring

Out of her violin? At thy touch

the music turns into criesof anguish!

Waking up in the morning Iheard yesterday

The plantive Sanai mourning those

Who had not returned yet, At home

The singer cried for them and wept bitter tears

And floating with that music the soul of the beloved

Wandered far to the distant spot

Where the love anxiously waited.

This morning I got up

And heard the Sanai again

Crying as mournfully as ever.

And the pensive Shefalika,
sad as a widow's smile,

Falls in clusters, spreading

A mild fragrance in the air.

Today the butterfly dances in restless joy


Numbing the flowers with its kisses.
And the wings of the bee
Carry the yellow of the petals,
It's body covered with honey.


Life seems to have sprung up suddenly
On all sides. Asong of welcome
Comes unconsciously to my lips
And unbidden tears spring to my eyes
Some one seems to have entwined my soul
With that of mother-earth. She comes forward
And with her dust-adorned hands
Offers me her presents.
It seems to me that she is the youngest daughter of mine,
My darling child!
But suddenly wake up with a start. O cruel saint, being my child,
Thou weepest in my home, hungry and stoned!

O my child, my darling one
I could not give thee even a dropp of milk
No right have I to rejoice.
Poverty weeps within my doors forever
As my spouse and my child.
Who will play the flute?
Where shall I get the happy smile
Of the beautiful? Where the honeyed drink
I have drunk deep the hemlock
Of bitter tears!


And still even today
I hear the mournful tune of the Sanai.


[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury ]

Poverty


O poverty, thou hast made me great.
Thou hast made me honoured like Christ
With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me
Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe
My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue.
Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword.

O proud saint, thy terrible fire
Has rendered my heaven barren.
It has prematurely dried beauty.
My feelings and my life.
Time and again I stretched my lean, cupped hands
To accept the gift of the beautiful.
But those hungry ones always came before me.
And did snatch it away ruthlessly,
Now my word of imagination is
Dry as a vast desert.
And my own beautiful!


My yellow-stalked pensive desire
Wants to blossom like the fragrant shefali.
But thou cruel one
Dost ruthlessly break the soft stalk
As the woodcutter chopsthe branches
Off the trees. My heart grows tender
Like the autumn morning
It fills with love
Like the dew-laden earth.
But thou art the blazing sun
And thy fiery heart dries up the tiny dropp of the earth
I grow listless in the shadowy skirt of the earth
And my dreams of beauty and goodness vanish!
With a bitter tongue thou askest,
'What's the use of nectar?
It has no sting, no intoxication, no madness it.
The search for heaven's secred drink
Is not for the in this sorrow-filled earth.

Thou art the serpent, born in pai.
Thou will sit in the bower of thorns
And weave the garland of flowers.
I put on thy forehead the sing
Of suffering and woe.'


So I sing, I weave a garland,
While my throat is on fire,
And my serpent daughter bites me all over!


O unforgiving Durbasha! thou wanderest
From door to door with thy beggar's bowl.
Thou goes to the peaceful abode of
Some sleeping happy couple



And sternly callest, 'O fool,
Knowest thou, that this earth is not anybody's
Pleasure bower for luxury adn ease.
Here is sorrow and separation
And a hundred wants and disease.
Under the arms of the beloved
There are thorns in the bed,
And now must thou prepare
To savour these.' The unhappy home
Is shattered in a moment,
And woeful laments rend
The air. The light of joy is extinguished
And endless nights descends.

Thou walkest the road alone

Lean, hungry and starved.

Suddenly some sight makes thy eyebrows

Arch in annoyance and thine eyes

Blazeforth-fires of anger!

And lo! famine, pestilence and tornado

Visit the country, pleasuregarden burn,

Palaces tumble, thy law

Knows nothing but death and destruction.

Nor for thee the license of courtesy.

Thou seekest the unashaamed revelation of stark nakedness.

Thou knowest no timid hesitation or polite embarrassment

Thou dost raise high the lowly head.

At thy signal the travellers on the road to death

Put round their neck the fatal noose

With cheerful smile on their faces!

Nursing the fire of perennial want in their bosom

They worship the god of death in fiendish glee!

Thou tramplest the crown of Lakshmi

Under thy feet. What tune

Dost thou want to wiring

Out of her violin? At thy touch

the music turns into criesof anguish!

Waking up in the morning Iheard yesterday

The plantive Sanai mourning those

Who had not returned yet, At home

The singer cried for them and wept bitter tears

And floating with that music the soul of the beloved

Wandered far to the distant spot

Where the love anxiously waited.

This morning I got up

And heard the Sanai again

Crying as mournfully as ever.

And the pensive Shefalika,
sad as a widow's smile,

Falls in clusters, spreading

A mild fragrance in the air.

Today the butterfly dances in restless joy


Numbing the flowers with its kisses.
And the wings of the bee
Carry the yellow of the petals,
It's body covered with honey.


Life seems to have sprung up suddenly
On all sides. Asong of welcome
Comes unconsciously to my lips
And unbidden tears spring to my eyes
Some one seems to have entwined my soul
With that of mother-earth. She comes forward
And with her dust-adorned hands
Offers me her presents.
It seems to me that she is the youngest daughter of mine,
My darling child!
But suddenly wake up with a start. O cruel saint, being my child,
Thou weepest in my home, hungry and stoned!

O my child, my darling one
I could not give thee even a dropp of milk
No right have I to rejoice.
Poverty weeps within my doors forever
As my spouse and my child.
Who will play the flute?
Where shall I get the happy smile
Of the beautiful? Where the honeyed drink
I have drunk deep the hemlock
Of bitter tears!


And still even today
I hear the mournful tune of the Sanai.


[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury ]

Poverty


O poverty, thou hast made me great.
Thou hast made me honoured like Christ
With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me
Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe
My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue.
Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword.

O proud saint, thy terrible fire
Has rendered my heaven barren.
It has prematurely dried beauty.
My feelings and my life.
Time and again I stretched my lean, cupped hands
To accept the gift of the beautiful.
But those hungry ones always came before me.
And did snatch it away ruthlessly,
Now my word of imagination is
Dry as a vast desert.
And my own beautiful!


My yellow-stalked pensive desire
Wants to blossom like the fragrant shefali.
But thou cruel one
Dost ruthlessly break the soft stalk
As the woodcutter chopsthe branches
Off the trees. My heart grows tender
Like the autumn morning
It fills with love
Like the dew-laden earth.
But thou art the blazing sun
And thy fiery heart dries up the tiny dropp of the earth
I grow listless in the shadowy skirt of the earth
And my dreams of beauty and goodness vanish!
With a bitter tongue thou askest,
'What's the use of nectar?
It has no sting, no intoxication, no madness it.
The search for heaven's secred drink
Is not for the in this sorrow-filled earth.

Thou art the serpent, born in pai.
Thou will sit in the bower of thorns
And weave the garland of flowers.
I put on thy forehead the sing
Of suffering and woe.'


So I sing, I weave a garland,
While my throat is on fire,
And my serpent daughter bites me all over!


O unforgiving Durbasha! thou wanderest
From door to door with thy beggar's bowl.
Thou goes to the peaceful abode of
Some sleeping happy couple



And sternly callest, 'O fool,
Knowest thou, that this earth is not anybody's
Pleasure bower for luxury adn ease.
Here is sorrow and separation
And a hundred wants and disease.
Under the arms of the beloved
There are thorns in the bed,
And now must thou prepare
To savour these.' The unhappy home
Is shattered in a moment,
And woeful laments rend
The air. The light of joy is extinguished
And endless nights descends.

Thou walkest the road alone

Lean, hungry and starved.

Suddenly some sight makes thy eyebrows

Arch in annoyance and thine eyes

Blazeforth-fires of anger!

And lo! famine, pestilence and tornado

Visit the country, pleasuregarden burn,

Palaces tumble, thy law

Knows nothing but death and destruction.

Nor for thee the license of courtesy.

Thou seekest the unashaamed revelation of stark nakedness.

Thou knowest no timid hesitation or polite embarrassment

Thou dost raise high the lowly head.

At thy signal the travellers on the road to death

Put round their neck the fatal noose

With cheerful smile on their faces!

Nursing the fire of perennial want in their bosom

They worship the god of death in fiendish glee!

Thou tramplest the crown of Lakshmi

Under thy feet. What tune

Dost thou want to wiring

Out of her violin? At thy touch

the music turns into criesof anguish!

Waking up in the morning Iheard yesterday

The plantive Sanai mourning those

Who had not returned yet, At home

The singer cried for them and wept bitter tears

And floating with that music the soul of the beloved

Wandered far to the distant spot

Where the love anxiously waited.

This morning I got up

And heard the Sanai again

Crying as mournfully as ever.

And the pensive Shefalika,
sad as a widow's smile,

Falls in clusters, spreading

A mild fragrance in the air.

Today the butterfly dances in restless joy


Numbing the flowers with its kisses.
And the wings of the bee
Carry the yellow of the petals,
It's body covered with honey.


Life seems to have sprung up suddenly
On all sides. Asong of welcome
Comes unconsciously to my lips
And unbidden tears spring to my eyes
Some one seems to have entwined my soul
With that of mother-earth. She comes forward
And with her dust-adorned hands
Offers me her presents.
It seems to me that she is the youngest daughter of mine,
My darling child!
But suddenly wake up with a start. O cruel saint, being my child,
Thou weepest in my home, hungry and stoned!

O my child, my darling one
I could not give thee even a dropp of milk
No right have I to rejoice.
Poverty weeps within my doors forever
As my spouse and my child.
Who will play the flute?
Where shall I get the happy smile
Of the beautiful? Where the honeyed drink
I have drunk deep the hemlock
Of bitter tears!


And still even today
I hear the mournful tune of the Sanai.


[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury ]

Pioneers, O Pioneers

O you who look so soiled and weary,
Collect your armour for the struggle,
Your rusty shovels, heavy hammers,
To save the earth from dire disaster.


We have no time for sport or revels,
No leisure for procrastinating.
The war's begun in deadly earnest;
We've deeds to plant and crops to harvest.


I see the young on fire and marching
Onward past mountains, vales and rivers,
Unbent and proud man's heritage,
Freedom and honour, in their keeping.


The ancient East, inert, feeble,
A waits a voice to end its slumber.
We will once more awaken, rouse it,
And set it stirring, breathing, moving.


The murky past is dead and buried.
We must emerge from sunless caverns
Into broad uplands bright and shining,
Create a world of newer splendour.


We'll scale the peaks and cross the gorges,
And overcome what risks lie hidden.
We'll fell old trees to build our bridges
And go down in the mines for treasure.


We are awake, no longer sleeping;
We have descended from the plateaus,
Reckless of hungry wounded tigers
And we must move and look not backwards.


We are beholden to those countries,
Egypt and China, Spain and Norway,
Russia, Korea, who have broken
Their age-old chains and savoured freedom.


O Fortune's darlings, I, the poet,
Have nought to offer but my anguish,
My hopes, My dreams, the red blood dripping
From Within my heart beating wildly.


Invoke the gods of ruthless terror,
Shrink not from blood, as green and daring
You must unfurl your country's banner
Armed to the teeth and marching forward.


Listen! beloved fearless children;
Wild beasts and vultures squeak behind you,



And rotting corpses leer, or, frowning,
Earn praise from those who're scared of movement.


Let not these horrors daunt Or frighten;
But torch in hand advance, resistless;
The battlefield is strewn with martyrs
Who died in hundreds faces shining.


The earth is pulsing with a new life,
A tremor coursing through its arteries.
Ours is the strength of many armies;
Our comrades wait in every hamlet.


Sailors and ploughmen, slaves and masters,
Workers and lovers, waifs and prisoners,
Unhappy men who know no laughter-
They too are actors in Our drama.


The day that wanes, the night that follows,
The planets which you see revolving,
Children not born yet, our future soldiers,
They too are bound on this quest endless.


Sisters, awake, your brothers need you
They'll lag behind if you are missing;
Arise and join them, Jet the vanguard
Move forward, rank on rank in order.


I hear the sound of bells announcing
The coming age, when dreams and reveries
Will be fulfilled, and hopes turn rosy,
And we will reach our destination.


We have no use for lifeless knowledge
Stored in thick tomes; We want no false dreams
Or short-lived joys, bejewelled footwear,
Or cushioned thrones, no wealth that's rotten.


We shall survive on bread and water.
And sleep on hard floors, learn to hate those
Who are enslaved by greed, those gluttons;
We will go forward, we the fighters.


Do wipe away your tears, my comrades,
And rest a while if are weary,
Do not lose heart if night is falling,
Our will is firm, our aim is steady.


[Translation: Syed Sajjad Husain]

Pain of the Poor

These children-suffering
from a lack of mother's care,
in rags, their bodies covered with dirt,
faces dried up from starving all day, scornful,
their bodies feverish, skin chapped all over.
They can't even get a meager meal
from laboring all day.
Ignoring them-O Rich, O Ruler,
how can you stand the taste of monda, mithai, khaja?
Starving, when they see you-eating,
they beg silently with their pathetic eyes.
Shame on you!-How do you still go on gorging?
All that rice you store in your binsjust
a portion of it could save them.
You have such a wide variety of clothing;
these children do not have even as much
as the rag you polish your shoes with.
You've trunk loads of clothing,
while these children freeze to death all night long
with their mothers lying in corridors and lanes.


You feel so happy from hugs and kisses
from your children,
their mothers weep holding them in their bosoms.
Your children have no dearth of toys,
their toys are what's been thrown outan
embarrassment for their mothers.
Their unkempt hair, turning brownish and matted,
their skin blackened from roaming about in the sun,
for no reason they get beaten and scolded by people.
Your children cry 'bloody murder' for minor incidents,
whereas they have at most a sombre face
even when their hearts break from sadness.
The mothers of these unfortunate childrenstanding
aloof-who understands how much pain there is
in their tearful eyes?
If there's a slight touch of fever
in your children, ten doctors come rushing to check them.
But for these children-even when they have a high temperature,
there's none to offer them even a sip of water;
reduced to skeletons, they die in their mothers' arms.
They don't eat pomegranates or grapes when they are sick;
they think they have the world
by getting just a piece of sugar candy.
Your children go to sleep in rocking cradles,
these children sleep under the tamarind tree;
even the most stone-hearted aught to be moved to see this.


Nobody understands their misery,
everybody despises them
and thinks, 'Why do they litter the streets?'
So take heed, a burning stomach needs to complain;



I don't wish that even on my enemies. .
Even in such misery,
God will supposedly grant them welfare-that's
the only consolation for the poor.


[Original: Goriber baytha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]

Pain of the Poor

These children-suffering
from a lack of mother's care,
in rags, their bodies covered with dirt,
faces dried up from starving all day, scornful,
their bodies feverish, skin chapped all over.
They can't even get a meager meal
from laboring all day.
Ignoring them-O Rich, O Ruler,
how can you stand the taste of monda, mithai, khaja?
Starving, when they see you-eating,
they beg silently with their pathetic eyes.
Shame on you!-How do you still go on gorging?
All that rice you store in your binsjust
a portion of it could save them.
You have such a wide variety of clothing;
these children do not have even as much
as the rag you polish your shoes with.
You've trunk loads of clothing,
while these children freeze to death all night long
with their mothers lying in corridors and lanes.


You feel so happy from hugs and kisses
from your children,
their mothers weep holding them in their bosoms.
Your children have no dearth of toys,
their toys are what's been thrown outan
embarrassment for their mothers.
Their unkempt hair, turning brownish and matted,
their skin blackened from roaming about in the sun,
for no reason they get beaten and scolded by people.
Your children cry 'bloody murder' for minor incidents,
whereas they have at most a sombre face
even when their hearts break from sadness.
The mothers of these unfortunate childrenstanding
aloof-who understands how much pain there is
in their tearful eyes?
If there's a slight touch of fever
in your children, ten doctors come rushing to check them.
But for these children-even when they have a high temperature,
there's none to offer them even a sip of water;
reduced to skeletons, they die in their mothers' arms.
They don't eat pomegranates or grapes when they are sick;
they think they have the world
by getting just a piece of sugar candy.
Your children go to sleep in rocking cradles,
these children sleep under the tamarind tree;
even the most stone-hearted aught to be moved to see this.


Nobody understands their misery,
everybody despises them
and thinks, 'Why do they litter the streets?'
So take heed, a burning stomach needs to complain;



I don't wish that even on my enemies. .
Even in such misery,
God will supposedly grant them welfare-that's
the only consolation for the poor.


[Original: Goriber baytha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]

My Songs

My songs like wounded birds, faIl

At thy feet, O darling. Pick up all

Those bleeding birds in your breast

Tenderly and let them meet their eternal rest

At thy bosom, a death beautiful and serene.

Borne on the wings of music they were seen

Flying in the sky when the arrow of thine eyes Pierced them:

And with their dying notes there
did arise

A new flood tide of songs, O my hunter

Thou brought for me a taste of nectar

Shrouded in death's melancholy.

[Original in Bangla: Gaan-guli mor; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]

My Explanation

I am a poet of today, not a prophet of a future day,
Poet or worthless, call me whatever, I put up with anything you say.
Some say, to the future you belong,
Your place, as a poet, tomorrow will come along.
How come you lack message enduring like that emanates from Rabi's hand?
I am blamed, but I wont' quit playing rising sun's music band.


My fellow poets are disappointed, they read my works and sigh,
Saying: the good one is becoming no good, as he can't say to politics good-bye.
Does not read a book - finished is this chap!
Some say: His wife has brought, indeed, all this mishap!
Some say: The fat one is spoiled, playing cards - non-stop - in the jail,
Others say: You were better there; toward jail again you should sail!


Mentor says: You're no good, except shaving using a sword!
Every Saturday my lover's letter conveys me, 'Nothing useful in you is stored.'
I say: Honey, shall I reveal the secret?
Letters stop in a hurry; not one more I get.
Sacrificing everything, I got married: Hindus say, 'Get lost'!
Am I Muslim or a heathen? Where is my pigtail or beard, or the hem of loin-cloth?


All the goody-searching priests or Mollahs wave their hands and pronounce:
This one invokes names of deities; this rogue one we must denounce!
Hear the Fatwa: Kafir is this Kazi; nothing else,
Even though he wants martyrdom, or so he tells!
Some scripture we know, and we still earn our livelihood!
Hindus detest my use of Persian words saying: from us, this guy deserves no good!


No one is happy with me; the disciples of non-violence? of course, not!
I am blamed I play the violin of violence; I get the revolutionaries' hot heads even
more hot.
The revolutionaries say: This one is non-violent,
My songs deal with spinning wheels: they resent.
Top Brahmins find me atheist, lesser ones regard me as one of the Confucians;
Independence lovers don't accept me; their opponents prefer me to be with those
Europeans!


Men think I am a feminist; women, however, think otherwise,
I never went to England; I am worthless in my expatriate friends' eyes!
My admirers see me as Rabi of new age,
If not of new age, at least a poet of these trendy days!
I hear all these, bemused; exercise for a stronger heart,
Lie down with eyeglasses on; sleeping through the day is my life's part.


I don't know what I write; Do I even understand anything of my own?
I couldn't raise my hand in protest, so I write with my head down.
Dear friends, I did not find appreciation in you,
but my name shines in government's list in lieu.
Honoring my works as invaluable, without value people take it.
Have you heard anything else? Be careful, may not be far a government spy's pit!


Friends, you have seen me engrossed in my own mind's temple,



I rebuke and admonish my mind, but bringing it under control I wish were so simple!
Every time I chain itself, somehow it escapes free
I beat it, and the same I repeat, to complete my victory,
I wish this mad mind would listen to me, but even to Rabi or Gandhi, it did not listen,
Abruptly it wakes up and then wanders in the jungle's darkness in search of roaring
tigers that glisten.


I say, O this insane one, you are doing so great in the community,
You are already a half-leader; but if you lose this opportunity,
would you ever be a full leader,
and weep with the crowd as a speaker?
Pick up the fish in the net now, O fool, before it slips away, I bet!
Take this break to get your leaky house fixed, otherwise soon you will regret.


Who understands that this minstrel's mind roams around singing and reciting!
This name hardly rings any bell; Days are passed chewing Betel leaves, ah, a taste so
inviting!
May be some day there won't be any more of epidemic of malaria,
Especially, since the autonomy is coming in its full pomp and euphoria.
Yes, we want moon, but those hapless ones cherish a meal, as teardrops of their little
ones dribble,
The agonized mother shouts: Hush, you miserables! See, independence is coming - no
more quibble!


But those hungry kids can't care less about autonomy; their desire: a little salt and
some rice,
Ah! the hour is late; nothing they have nibbled yet; the flame of hunger seeks no
advice.
When I hear that cry, my insane mind charges in a rush,
My intoxication for autonomy seeks shelter merely in my dream's brush!
I say, bemoaning: O God, are you still there? Why are they not, then,
Humiliated or destroyed, those who suck the blood of these children?


We all know, to bring independence, those lofty slogans we have devised,
And, at the same time, how burning hunger of so many million children, we have
compromised!
So much money was raised, but independence still remained a dream,
as the hungry people can't pay enough, they are so weak even to scream!
When a baby is snatched away from the mother's bosom, we plead, O royal tiger,
please eat grass!
The mother keeps begging from door to door, while in her shack hiding the baby's
carcass.


My friends, I can't say any more; my mind feels so much agony and pain,
I have gone mad; now, I utter whatever my mouth throws out in disdain.
My own blood won't make much difference,
With blood-ink I keep writing, hence,
My head can't forbear robust ideas or big thought any more; so agonized is this mortal,
All those who are in peace and happiness, it's your privilege to write epics immortal.


I don't care any more, if I live or don't, when gone is this trendy sensation,
Rabi is shining above our head, and then there are you, the golden generation.



Those who usurp the morsel of three hundred thirty million people: let our prayer keep
brewin',
In my blood-ink writing, may it be engraved and sealed their utter ruin.


[Original: Bengali, Translator: Dr. Mohammad Omar Farooq ]

My Dearest Nightingale

Please come back, come back to my empty bosom
The morning flowers wither away untimely
Mourning your loss
Won't you return to my empty bosom!

O, my dearest silly one,
Without your presence the moon turned pale
The river cries out in pain
Pleading you to return

O, the beautiful one
The trees search for you spreading out their branches
Up in the sky
The storm churns through the woods
Looking for you
Branches lay on the dirt in deep pain

O my restless one
When you return
Lotus will re-bloom
Your glance will make the gray sky
Turn azure again

O, my dear one, please return to my empty bosom!
Please return!

[Translation: Gulshan Ara]

My Dearest Nightingale

Please come back, come back to my empty bosom
The morning flowers wither away untimely
Mourning your loss
Won't you return to my empty bosom!

O, my dearest silly one,
Without your presence the moon turned pale
The river cries out in pain
Pleading you to return

O, the beautiful one
The trees search for you spreading out their branches
Up in the sky
The storm churns through the woods
Looking for you
Branches lay on the dirt in deep pain

O my restless one
When you return
Lotus will re-bloom
Your glance will make the gray sky
Turn azure again

O, my dear one, please return to my empty bosom!
Please return!

[Translation: Gulshan Ara]

My Beauty

Dressed as a bridegroom, I know
my beauty shall come from afar,
across distant lands of separation,
after ages together.

There he comes in silence
attired as my dear death,
who would never leave my home.

[Original: Borer beshe ashbe jani; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]

Like a Lost Bird

At the end of the rolIing road, my dearest, I await alone;
Rolling in the dust of the path you have traveled.
The way you have walked on the bright ground of the mountains
I wish you could rub your feet on my breast making me forget my pain
I do not desire anything, no slumber in my eyes;
Wandering aimlessly in the street, the neighborhood laughs at me.
I cannot go to the pond, how have you enchanted me!
In the black water of the pond, I see your black beauty
You have scandalized me and left me alone!


[Original: Pothhara Pakhi; Translation: Kashfia Billah]

Like a Lost Bird

At the end of the rolIing road, my dearest, I await alone;
Rolling in the dust of the path you have traveled.
The way you have walked on the bright ground of the mountains
I wish you could rub your feet on my breast making me forget my pain
I do not desire anything, no slumber in my eyes;
Wandering aimlessly in the street, the neighborhood laughs at me.
I cannot go to the pond, how have you enchanted me!
In the black water of the pond, I see your black beauty
You have scandalized me and left me alone!


[Original: Pothhara Pakhi; Translation: Kashfia Billah]

Lonely in My Floral chariot

O my friend,
you walked on your thorny path smiling,
seeing me lonely in my floral chariot, crying.


O the friend passer-by,
if you took me to your path,
I would have covered all the thorns under my breast.
Now I cry in my gay chariot
longing to become your friend in distress.


[Original: Tumi heshe chole gele; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]

Lonely in My Floral chariot

O my friend,
you walked on your thorny path smiling,
seeing me lonely in my floral chariot, crying.


O the friend passer-by,
if you took me to your path,
I would have covered all the thorns under my breast.
Now I cry in my gay chariot
longing to become your friend in distress.


[Original: Tumi heshe chole gele; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]