Society and the World

The Destitutes

Encircled by the water-waves of suffering the
shoal of quicksand,
O insane! Who built a shack there

with your precious hand?
Lightening reveals a new attitude,
Leave this neighborhood, O destitute!
The flowing tear of motherly cloud

is raining over your head; and
The land over there is calling you,
waving its plants and trees' band.
Your daughters are flood-slaughtered weeping
bitterly,
They are being invited today
by the ocean, motherly.
O boatman! O boatman!
Lift your sail - delay? - no more you can,
Your ride is like a stormy fan,
swinging on the waves of sea.
O boatman! Why more delay?
Lift your anchor, let it be free.
Here in the broken life's span,
your time is almost gone!
Look, your gazelle, O boatman,


eyes at the shore for a new dawn.
Your friends have already begun the voyage,
as the night sets its dark stage,
mat-bound your shoulder's edge,

Don't, any more, live in yawn!
To give up the tie of this bondage,
how much more you need to be overdrawn?
Diamond or jewels, you didn't seek;
Millionaire's rich you didn't cherish;
Your want is of a miserable meek


That's as small as a potter's dish.
You sought to sleep in peace,
And, a small mat, even if torn, apiece,
A lamp offering light's kiss,

A small shack with a door, is what you wish!
Enough of death's hanging shadow, or illness' hiss,
No more burglars stealing your fish.
O boatman, sail your boat now
toward land, ashore.
From the hard soil

let your soft feet be bloodied, like never before!
You will roam around as a storm;
You will traverse through places of soft or rugged form;
Approaching rains, like dance they perform,

as they swirl from the Indus river's floor.
Come on, the riders of water now
to the land that invites you to its door.

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

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]

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]

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 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 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

Send from Heaven Again

Send again, Hazrat! from Heaven
The message of justice and toleration!
I can no longer see this hateful hitting
between man and man!


Tell, them Hazrat! tell them all
Who pretend to follow thy divine call,
To love all men as the creatures of God!
And to regard all as the creation of God!


The virtue of Justice and Toleration,
Which was yours and which has made
Half the world to believe in you -
That virtue we have not learnt to value!


The slaves and dupes that we are,
The Queen and Hadith we merely hear!
Despised in the world we are
By disrespecting your commands clear!


The suffering humanity we hate,
But we say: We submit to God Compassionate!


[Translation: Mizanur Rahman]

Send from Heaven Again

Send again, Hazrat! from Heaven
The message of justice and toleration!
I can no longer see this hateful hitting
between man and man!


Tell, them Hazrat! tell them all
Who pretend to follow thy divine call,
To love all men as the creatures of God!
And to regard all as the creation of God!


The virtue of Justice and Toleration,
Which was yours and which has made
Half the world to believe in you -
That virtue we have not learnt to value!


The slaves and dupes that we are,
The Queen and Hadith we merely hear!
Despised in the world we are
By disrespecting your commands clear!


The suffering humanity we hate,
But we say: We submit to God Compassionate!


[Translation: Mizanur Rahman]

Send from Heaven Again

Send again, Hazrat! from Heaven
The message of justice and toleration!
I can no longer see this hateful hitting
between man and man!


Tell, them Hazrat! tell them all
Who pretend to follow thy divine call,
To love all men as the creatures of God!
And to regard all as the creation of God!


The virtue of Justice and Toleration,
Which was yours and which has made
Half the world to believe in you -
That virtue we have not learnt to value!


The slaves and dupes that we are,
The Queen and Hadith we merely hear!
Despised in the world we are
By disrespecting your commands clear!


The suffering humanity we hate,
But we say: We submit to God Compassionate!


[Translation: Mizanur Rahman]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

Resurrection


Wake up
You captives of hunger, arise.
You harassed, down-trodden masses,
Spell thunder at the oppressors -
The stirred voices of the sufferers cry.


A new world reborn is soon to dawn.
These fetters of ancient scriptures
Wrought this utter ruin;
Come, let us break in,
Shattering the devil's dungeon.


Wake up,
Ye, hapless masses, arise,
So that no 'one beneath
The feet of others lies.


On a new foundation
A young world shall dawn.
Listen, you tyrant!
Listen, you rich!
Though destitute,
Through the war,


Our rights
We shall recover
With the unity of sufferers
All the world over.


[Translation: Syed Mujibul Huq]

Resurrection


Wake up
You captives of hunger, arise.
You harassed, down-trodden masses,
Spell thunder at the oppressors -
The stirred voices of the sufferers cry.


A new world reborn is soon to dawn.
These fetters of ancient scriptures
Wrought this utter ruin;
Come, let us break in,
Shattering the devil's dungeon.


Wake up,
Ye, hapless masses, arise,
So that no 'one beneath
The feet of others lies.


On a new foundation
A young world shall dawn.
Listen, you tyrant!
Listen, you rich!
Though destitute,
Through the war,


Our rights
We shall recover
With the unity of sufferers
All the world over.


[Translation: Syed Mujibul Huq]

Resurrection


Wake up
You captives of hunger, arise.
You harassed, down-trodden masses,
Spell thunder at the oppressors -
The stirred voices of the sufferers cry.


A new world reborn is soon to dawn.
These fetters of ancient scriptures
Wrought this utter ruin;
Come, let us break in,
Shattering the devil's dungeon.


Wake up,
Ye, hapless masses, arise,
So that no 'one beneath
The feet of others lies.


On a new foundation
A young world shall dawn.
Listen, you tyrant!
Listen, you rich!
Though destitute,
Through the war,


Our rights
We shall recover
With the unity of sufferers
All the world over.


[Translation: Syed Mujibul Huq]

Resurrection


Wake up
You captives of hunger, arise.
You harassed, down-trodden masses,
Spell thunder at the oppressors -
The stirred voices of the sufferers cry.


A new world reborn is soon to dawn.
These fetters of ancient scriptures
Wrought this utter ruin;
Come, let us break in,
Shattering the devil's dungeon.


Wake up,
Ye, hapless masses, arise,
So that no 'one beneath
The feet of others lies.


On a new foundation
A young world shall dawn.
Listen, you tyrant!
Listen, you rich!
Though destitute,
Through the war,


Our rights
We shall recover
With the unity of sufferers
All the world over.


[Translation: Syed Mujibul Huq]

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 ]

Prostitute


Who calls you a prostitute, Mother?
Who spits at you?
Perhaps you were suckled by someone
as chaste as Seeta.
You may not be chaste,
yet you are one of the family
of all our mothers and sisters.
Your sons are like any of us sons,
as capable of achieving fame and honor
as any of us,
as capable of entering heaven.


The great hero Drona
was the son of Ghritachi,
a prostitute in heaven.
Krishna-Daipayan,
who was universally respected,
was the son of an unmarried girl.
Karna the Benevolent
Was born of a maiden.
Ganga, expelled from heaven,
was married to Shiva.
King Shantanu, too,
offered her his love.
Their son was the immortal Bheeshma,
to whom Krishna paid homage!
The Sage Satyakama
was the illegitimate son of Jabala.
The conception of the great lover of humanity, Jesus,
remains a mystery.


None is,stained with sin here,
none is an object of hatred.
Millions of beautiful lilies
blossom in the lake of lust!
Listen to this message of humanity:
After birth, all human beings
are free of all impurities.
Because I have once committed a sin,
have I no right to return to virtue?
Hundreds of sinful acts
did not take away the divineness of the gods.
If Ahalya was freed of sin,
if Mary was canonized,
truthfully, why shouldn't you, too,
be worthy of worship?


Who are the bigots
who condescendingly label your son
as an 'illegitimate' child?
To them I simply ask these questions.
How many of the 1,500 million children



of this world were born
purely out of the purpose of procreation,
and not out of lust?
How many are pure and chaste?
For whose sin do millions of sucklings
die in the cradle?


Purely from carnal urge
do men and women unite.
We are children born of that lust.
Yet how proud we are!


So, listen, religious leaders:
There's no difference between 'illegitimate'
and 'legitimate' children!
And if the son of an unchaste mother is 'illegitimate,'
so is the son of an unchaste father.


[Translation: Sajed Kamal]