Poems in this topic
Society and the World
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Prostitute
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]
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]
879
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Prostitute
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]
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]
879
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Pioneers, O Pioneers
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]
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]
518
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Pioneers, O Pioneers
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]
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]
518
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Pioneers, O Pioneers
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]
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]
518
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Pain of the Poor
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]
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]
644
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Pain of the Poor
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]
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]
644
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Pain of the Poor
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]
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]
644
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Pain of the Poor
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]
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]
644
Kazi Nazrul Islam
O Destitutes!
O Destitutes!
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
496
Kazi Nazrul Islam
O Destitutes!
O Destitutes!
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
496
Kazi Nazrul Islam
O Destitutes!
O Destitutes!
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
496
Kazi Nazrul Islam
O Destitutes!
O Destitutes!
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
496
Kazi Nazrul Islam
O Destitutes!
O Destitutes!
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
496
Kazi Nazrul Islam
My Prophet Mohammad
My Prophet Mohammad
Syed Makki Madani,
he is my prophet Mohammad.
The friend of God, full of kindness,
he is the dearly beloved of all.
Adam, Noah, Abraham, David,
Solomon, Moses and Jesus
all bear witness to his glory.
Over all their message
prevails the message revealed
to my prophet.
In him the world glimpsed
the hint of God's flaming light
It was he who brought to this sinful world
a foretaste of Heaven's delight.
In vain did Alexander seek
to find on this earth the nectar of Paradise.
My prophet freely distributed the same
in the assembly of mankind.
For nothing did Zuleikha lose her head
when she met the beautiful Yusuf.
Had she seen my prophet
gladly would she have renounced the world!
If David could hear
the honeyed words of my prophet
surely he would have prayed for his advice.
Noah's ark did not sink
only because it had my prophet's blessings.
Jonah, swallowed by the whale at sea,
continued to live,
and Nimrod's fire failed to kill Abraham,
only because my prophet showered on them both
his gracious blessings.
I for one have drunk deep the Quran's nectar
Hell I have made for ever harman for me!
[Original: Syed Makki Madni; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
Syed Makki Madani,
he is my prophet Mohammad.
The friend of God, full of kindness,
he is the dearly beloved of all.
Adam, Noah, Abraham, David,
Solomon, Moses and Jesus
all bear witness to his glory.
Over all their message
prevails the message revealed
to my prophet.
In him the world glimpsed
the hint of God's flaming light
It was he who brought to this sinful world
a foretaste of Heaven's delight.
In vain did Alexander seek
to find on this earth the nectar of Paradise.
My prophet freely distributed the same
in the assembly of mankind.
For nothing did Zuleikha lose her head
when she met the beautiful Yusuf.
Had she seen my prophet
gladly would she have renounced the world!
If David could hear
the honeyed words of my prophet
surely he would have prayed for his advice.
Noah's ark did not sink
only because it had my prophet's blessings.
Jonah, swallowed by the whale at sea,
continued to live,
and Nimrod's fire failed to kill Abraham,
only because my prophet showered on them both
his gracious blessings.
I for one have drunk deep the Quran's nectar
Hell I have made for ever harman for me!
[Original: Syed Makki Madni; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
791
Kazi Nazrul Islam
My Prophet Mohammad
My Prophet Mohammad
Syed Makki Madani,
he is my prophet Mohammad.
The friend of God, full of kindness,
he is the dearly beloved of all.
Adam, Noah, Abraham, David,
Solomon, Moses and Jesus
all bear witness to his glory.
Over all their message
prevails the message revealed
to my prophet.
In him the world glimpsed
the hint of God's flaming light
It was he who brought to this sinful world
a foretaste of Heaven's delight.
In vain did Alexander seek
to find on this earth the nectar of Paradise.
My prophet freely distributed the same
in the assembly of mankind.
For nothing did Zuleikha lose her head
when she met the beautiful Yusuf.
Had she seen my prophet
gladly would she have renounced the world!
If David could hear
the honeyed words of my prophet
surely he would have prayed for his advice.
Noah's ark did not sink
only because it had my prophet's blessings.
Jonah, swallowed by the whale at sea,
continued to live,
and Nimrod's fire failed to kill Abraham,
only because my prophet showered on them both
his gracious blessings.
I for one have drunk deep the Quran's nectar
Hell I have made for ever harman for me!
[Original: Syed Makki Madni; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
Syed Makki Madani,
he is my prophet Mohammad.
The friend of God, full of kindness,
he is the dearly beloved of all.
Adam, Noah, Abraham, David,
Solomon, Moses and Jesus
all bear witness to his glory.
Over all their message
prevails the message revealed
to my prophet.
In him the world glimpsed
the hint of God's flaming light
It was he who brought to this sinful world
a foretaste of Heaven's delight.
In vain did Alexander seek
to find on this earth the nectar of Paradise.
My prophet freely distributed the same
in the assembly of mankind.
For nothing did Zuleikha lose her head
when she met the beautiful Yusuf.
Had she seen my prophet
gladly would she have renounced the world!
If David could hear
the honeyed words of my prophet
surely he would have prayed for his advice.
Noah's ark did not sink
only because it had my prophet's blessings.
Jonah, swallowed by the whale at sea,
continued to live,
and Nimrod's fire failed to kill Abraham,
only because my prophet showered on them both
his gracious blessings.
I for one have drunk deep the Quran's nectar
Hell I have made for ever harman for me!
[Original: Syed Makki Madni; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
791
Kazi Nazrul Islam
My Explanation
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 ]
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 ]
612
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Make Islam strong, O God!
Make Islam strong, O God!
Make Islam strong, O God,
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
Make Islam strong, O God,
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
549
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Make Islam strong, O God!
Make Islam strong, O God!
Make Islam strong, O God,
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
Make Islam strong, O God,
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
549
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Make Islam strong, O God!
Make Islam strong, O God!
Make Islam strong, O God,
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
Make Islam strong, O God,
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
549
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Irrepressible Youth
Irrepressible Youth
O restless and impetuous youth!
Who hid thy face with the mask of wisdom
And clothed thee with the apparel of patience?
All the morality-mongers advise restraint
For the arrogant power of youth
Only to hide their own inner fears.
O thou impetuous! Who fettered thy flying wings?
Fearless youth! Thou, who from the crowd
Of begging weaklings, used to snatch light
Out of the womb of darkness, dost rest today
In thy nest,
How couldst thou check
Thy terrific onrush of life at the bidding
Of those whose spine is broken by
The cold touch of the polar wind and
Whose life is made powerless by the shadow of
hardened frost.
How strange to see the lion of the desert
Meekly enter the cage and submit to punishment!
Those who to want create to and yet are afraid to destroy
Are themselves victims of destruction first.
What fool says that thou canst kindle the fire
Without burning firewood? How
Canst thou get the shade of the forest
If the seed does not supply the life?
The swift flowing river as it rushes madly on
Impelled by its richness of life erodes the
two banks
And yet, at the same time, makes the flowers blossom.
She is thirsty for the sea and knows not
Who is her friend or foe. She cares
Not how many boats she sinks. All she
Wants is ever to be on the move, for that is
Her religion, Who ever heard that the breakers
Of the sea quietly slept lest two merchant ships sank?
Will not the elephant walk on the roads
Lest it tramples an ant under its feet?
Will not the mighty fire burn lest
It destroys healths and homes?
Will the sight of gaping, tattered roofs
Make the rains cease its heavy downpour?
Will the summer storms fail to come
Lest the trees in the woods tumble arid break?
Will there be no eagle because the timid
Baby-Lamb might take fright at his sight ?
O uncalculating youth,
Thou dost never waste thy time making out
The balance sheet of loss and gain !
O tempestuous youth, wake up!
Come like a tornado, trampling everything that falls
In front of thee, in causeless glee.
Bring generous life, wide as the horizons,
And a mighty current of motion strong enough
To wash tile debris off the banks
In a wild rush.
Embrace sorrow with a stout heart
And laugh loudly with frankness and joy.
Freedom will come later, but sing now
Of the fresh and the young. Untimely and
Ugly sickness has attacked the kingdom of youth.
This nation is inert as the dead
Long before its real decease. Open the iron door
And let joy unbounded flow
Like the smooth easy flight of the pigeons
In the blue firmament. Rush into the ocean
For no reason and climb the peak
Of that distant hill! If thou meetest
Death round the corner, embrace him as thy comrade.
Get rid of all the prejudices that reside
Inside thy heart and outside of thee, All the swords
Of Ali are rusted today and gone to seed!
[Original: Durbar joubon; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
O restless and impetuous youth!
Who hid thy face with the mask of wisdom
And clothed thee with the apparel of patience?
All the morality-mongers advise restraint
For the arrogant power of youth
Only to hide their own inner fears.
O thou impetuous! Who fettered thy flying wings?
Fearless youth! Thou, who from the crowd
Of begging weaklings, used to snatch light
Out of the womb of darkness, dost rest today
In thy nest,
How couldst thou check
Thy terrific onrush of life at the bidding
Of those whose spine is broken by
The cold touch of the polar wind and
Whose life is made powerless by the shadow of
hardened frost.
How strange to see the lion of the desert
Meekly enter the cage and submit to punishment!
Those who to want create to and yet are afraid to destroy
Are themselves victims of destruction first.
What fool says that thou canst kindle the fire
Without burning firewood? How
Canst thou get the shade of the forest
If the seed does not supply the life?
The swift flowing river as it rushes madly on
Impelled by its richness of life erodes the
two banks
And yet, at the same time, makes the flowers blossom.
She is thirsty for the sea and knows not
Who is her friend or foe. She cares
Not how many boats she sinks. All she
Wants is ever to be on the move, for that is
Her religion, Who ever heard that the breakers
Of the sea quietly slept lest two merchant ships sank?
Will not the elephant walk on the roads
Lest it tramples an ant under its feet?
Will not the mighty fire burn lest
It destroys healths and homes?
Will the sight of gaping, tattered roofs
Make the rains cease its heavy downpour?
Will the summer storms fail to come
Lest the trees in the woods tumble arid break?
Will there be no eagle because the timid
Baby-Lamb might take fright at his sight ?
O uncalculating youth,
Thou dost never waste thy time making out
The balance sheet of loss and gain !
O tempestuous youth, wake up!
Come like a tornado, trampling everything that falls
In front of thee, in causeless glee.
Bring generous life, wide as the horizons,
And a mighty current of motion strong enough
To wash tile debris off the banks
In a wild rush.
Embrace sorrow with a stout heart
And laugh loudly with frankness and joy.
Freedom will come later, but sing now
Of the fresh and the young. Untimely and
Ugly sickness has attacked the kingdom of youth.
This nation is inert as the dead
Long before its real decease. Open the iron door
And let joy unbounded flow
Like the smooth easy flight of the pigeons
In the blue firmament. Rush into the ocean
For no reason and climb the peak
Of that distant hill! If thou meetest
Death round the corner, embrace him as thy comrade.
Get rid of all the prejudices that reside
Inside thy heart and outside of thee, All the swords
Of Ali are rusted today and gone to seed!
[Original: Durbar joubon; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
599
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Irrepressible Youth
Irrepressible Youth
O restless and impetuous youth!
Who hid thy face with the mask of wisdom
And clothed thee with the apparel of patience?
All the morality-mongers advise restraint
For the arrogant power of youth
Only to hide their own inner fears.
O thou impetuous! Who fettered thy flying wings?
Fearless youth! Thou, who from the crowd
Of begging weaklings, used to snatch light
Out of the womb of darkness, dost rest today
In thy nest,
How couldst thou check
Thy terrific onrush of life at the bidding
Of those whose spine is broken by
The cold touch of the polar wind and
Whose life is made powerless by the shadow of
hardened frost.
How strange to see the lion of the desert
Meekly enter the cage and submit to punishment!
Those who to want create to and yet are afraid to destroy
Are themselves victims of destruction first.
What fool says that thou canst kindle the fire
Without burning firewood? How
Canst thou get the shade of the forest
If the seed does not supply the life?
The swift flowing river as it rushes madly on
Impelled by its richness of life erodes the
two banks
And yet, at the same time, makes the flowers blossom.
She is thirsty for the sea and knows not
Who is her friend or foe. She cares
Not how many boats she sinks. All she
Wants is ever to be on the move, for that is
Her religion, Who ever heard that the breakers
Of the sea quietly slept lest two merchant ships sank?
Will not the elephant walk on the roads
Lest it tramples an ant under its feet?
Will not the mighty fire burn lest
It destroys healths and homes?
Will the sight of gaping, tattered roofs
Make the rains cease its heavy downpour?
Will the summer storms fail to come
Lest the trees in the woods tumble arid break?
Will there be no eagle because the timid
Baby-Lamb might take fright at his sight ?
O uncalculating youth,
Thou dost never waste thy time making out
The balance sheet of loss and gain !
O tempestuous youth, wake up!
Come like a tornado, trampling everything that falls
In front of thee, in causeless glee.
Bring generous life, wide as the horizons,
And a mighty current of motion strong enough
To wash tile debris off the banks
In a wild rush.
Embrace sorrow with a stout heart
And laugh loudly with frankness and joy.
Freedom will come later, but sing now
Of the fresh and the young. Untimely and
Ugly sickness has attacked the kingdom of youth.
This nation is inert as the dead
Long before its real decease. Open the iron door
And let joy unbounded flow
Like the smooth easy flight of the pigeons
In the blue firmament. Rush into the ocean
For no reason and climb the peak
Of that distant hill! If thou meetest
Death round the corner, embrace him as thy comrade.
Get rid of all the prejudices that reside
Inside thy heart and outside of thee, All the swords
Of Ali are rusted today and gone to seed!
[Original: Durbar joubon; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
O restless and impetuous youth!
Who hid thy face with the mask of wisdom
And clothed thee with the apparel of patience?
All the morality-mongers advise restraint
For the arrogant power of youth
Only to hide their own inner fears.
O thou impetuous! Who fettered thy flying wings?
Fearless youth! Thou, who from the crowd
Of begging weaklings, used to snatch light
Out of the womb of darkness, dost rest today
In thy nest,
How couldst thou check
Thy terrific onrush of life at the bidding
Of those whose spine is broken by
The cold touch of the polar wind and
Whose life is made powerless by the shadow of
hardened frost.
How strange to see the lion of the desert
Meekly enter the cage and submit to punishment!
Those who to want create to and yet are afraid to destroy
Are themselves victims of destruction first.
What fool says that thou canst kindle the fire
Without burning firewood? How
Canst thou get the shade of the forest
If the seed does not supply the life?
The swift flowing river as it rushes madly on
Impelled by its richness of life erodes the
two banks
And yet, at the same time, makes the flowers blossom.
She is thirsty for the sea and knows not
Who is her friend or foe. She cares
Not how many boats she sinks. All she
Wants is ever to be on the move, for that is
Her religion, Who ever heard that the breakers
Of the sea quietly slept lest two merchant ships sank?
Will not the elephant walk on the roads
Lest it tramples an ant under its feet?
Will not the mighty fire burn lest
It destroys healths and homes?
Will the sight of gaping, tattered roofs
Make the rains cease its heavy downpour?
Will the summer storms fail to come
Lest the trees in the woods tumble arid break?
Will there be no eagle because the timid
Baby-Lamb might take fright at his sight ?
O uncalculating youth,
Thou dost never waste thy time making out
The balance sheet of loss and gain !
O tempestuous youth, wake up!
Come like a tornado, trampling everything that falls
In front of thee, in causeless glee.
Bring generous life, wide as the horizons,
And a mighty current of motion strong enough
To wash tile debris off the banks
In a wild rush.
Embrace sorrow with a stout heart
And laugh loudly with frankness and joy.
Freedom will come later, but sing now
Of the fresh and the young. Untimely and
Ugly sickness has attacked the kingdom of youth.
This nation is inert as the dead
Long before its real decease. Open the iron door
And let joy unbounded flow
Like the smooth easy flight of the pigeons
In the blue firmament. Rush into the ocean
For no reason and climb the peak
Of that distant hill! If thou meetest
Death round the corner, embrace him as thy comrade.
Get rid of all the prejudices that reside
Inside thy heart and outside of thee, All the swords
Of Ali are rusted today and gone to seed!
[Original: Durbar joubon; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
599
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Kings and Subjects
Kings and Subjects
I am the bard of equality.
At the crossroads I sing,
Where pity and sympathy
Have made us all comrades and brother
It is a simple question,
We are all children of this earth,
But can you tell me
Why are some kings, rolling in luxury
And some subjects, starving in gutters?
But it is a queer philosophy,
If I state this simple truth
I am charged with sedition.
The subject can turn a traitor as simply as that.
But whom shall I ask
Why a king should not be condemned
As a traitor to the people
For his thousand crimes and follies
It is the people who create kings
And not the kings the people
Is that the reason
Why the king tortures the people?
Is that the way
They express their gratitude?
How can you smile, friend?
We are only coolies and servants
In our own home and land.
We have given up our manliness,
Our strength, and power.
And what have we got?
Rendered eunuchs we are guarding today
The lascivious harem of the tyrant king.
Whom shall I relate to
This sad and tragic tale?
In our Own land we are the ruled and the oppressed.
Those who make up the very country
Have no right in it
While the rulers enjoy,
The people remain starved and hungry.
Whom shall I complain to
Of this grievous injustice?
All around we hear the sycophants crying
'God save the king, Glory to him',
We the people are always judged.
Is there no Hall of Justice for the kings and the
monarchs?
The war-drums sound deafeningly
And the country's youth rush
To the battle-field to die with smiles on their lips.
But the tender and loving hearts, losing their dear
ones,
Weep bitter tears at home.
And the ravens fly over their roofs.
The royal road is ready..
The victorious chariot will soon pass by
Rejoice, O Citizens!
Have not your sons come back?
Did not your brothers return? Are your husbands dead?
Why weep for them? They sleep in the lap
Of the Goddess of victory.
A dark shadow of gloom and grief
Envelopes the country today,
God save the King, glory to him?
Rejoice, O Citizens,
For the king has come out of his fort today
After so many days.
The King's chariot is flying fast,
Trampling under the wheels
The returned heroes,
Trampling underneath
The brave crippled soldiers and the glorious dead.
O the one-armed and the one-legged
Soldiers of the King,
Keep off the roads and move away
If you want to save your lives today.
Well, friend,
That is exactly what happens,
The people fight and win the battles
And sing the King's praises,
The people provide their rulers
With food and apparel.
The people serve the king with devotion and humility
Only to be rewarded like this.
Isn't that a queer justice, friend?
We have to bow down and make obeisance
To the servants who are paid from our money.
Come, O you all, and have a look
At those glorious Public Servants of our land.
The wheels of Time revolve,
And yet here in our country
Over millions of men
Rule a hundred thieves.
It is no wishful thinking,
Nor is the day very far
When all the kings of the world
Will, in unison, sing
The People's Victory.
[Original: Raja-Proja; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
I am the bard of equality.
At the crossroads I sing,
Where pity and sympathy
Have made us all comrades and brother
It is a simple question,
We are all children of this earth,
But can you tell me
Why are some kings, rolling in luxury
And some subjects, starving in gutters?
But it is a queer philosophy,
If I state this simple truth
I am charged with sedition.
The subject can turn a traitor as simply as that.
But whom shall I ask
Why a king should not be condemned
As a traitor to the people
For his thousand crimes and follies
It is the people who create kings
And not the kings the people
Is that the reason
Why the king tortures the people?
Is that the way
They express their gratitude?
How can you smile, friend?
We are only coolies and servants
In our own home and land.
We have given up our manliness,
Our strength, and power.
And what have we got?
Rendered eunuchs we are guarding today
The lascivious harem of the tyrant king.
Whom shall I relate to
This sad and tragic tale?
In our Own land we are the ruled and the oppressed.
Those who make up the very country
Have no right in it
While the rulers enjoy,
The people remain starved and hungry.
Whom shall I complain to
Of this grievous injustice?
All around we hear the sycophants crying
'God save the king, Glory to him',
We the people are always judged.
Is there no Hall of Justice for the kings and the
monarchs?
The war-drums sound deafeningly
And the country's youth rush
To the battle-field to die with smiles on their lips.
But the tender and loving hearts, losing their dear
ones,
Weep bitter tears at home.
And the ravens fly over their roofs.
The royal road is ready..
The victorious chariot will soon pass by
Rejoice, O Citizens!
Have not your sons come back?
Did not your brothers return? Are your husbands dead?
Why weep for them? They sleep in the lap
Of the Goddess of victory.
A dark shadow of gloom and grief
Envelopes the country today,
God save the King, glory to him?
Rejoice, O Citizens,
For the king has come out of his fort today
After so many days.
The King's chariot is flying fast,
Trampling under the wheels
The returned heroes,
Trampling underneath
The brave crippled soldiers and the glorious dead.
O the one-armed and the one-legged
Soldiers of the King,
Keep off the roads and move away
If you want to save your lives today.
Well, friend,
That is exactly what happens,
The people fight and win the battles
And sing the King's praises,
The people provide their rulers
With food and apparel.
The people serve the king with devotion and humility
Only to be rewarded like this.
Isn't that a queer justice, friend?
We have to bow down and make obeisance
To the servants who are paid from our money.
Come, O you all, and have a look
At those glorious Public Servants of our land.
The wheels of Time revolve,
And yet here in our country
Over millions of men
Rule a hundred thieves.
It is no wishful thinking,
Nor is the day very far
When all the kings of the world
Will, in unison, sing
The People's Victory.
[Original: Raja-Proja; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
625
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Kings and Subjects
Kings and Subjects
I am the bard of equality.
At the crossroads I sing,
Where pity and sympathy
Have made us all comrades and brother
It is a simple question,
We are all children of this earth,
But can you tell me
Why are some kings, rolling in luxury
And some subjects, starving in gutters?
But it is a queer philosophy,
If I state this simple truth
I am charged with sedition.
The subject can turn a traitor as simply as that.
But whom shall I ask
Why a king should not be condemned
As a traitor to the people
For his thousand crimes and follies
It is the people who create kings
And not the kings the people
Is that the reason
Why the king tortures the people?
Is that the way
They express their gratitude?
How can you smile, friend?
We are only coolies and servants
In our own home and land.
We have given up our manliness,
Our strength, and power.
And what have we got?
Rendered eunuchs we are guarding today
The lascivious harem of the tyrant king.
Whom shall I relate to
This sad and tragic tale?
In our Own land we are the ruled and the oppressed.
Those who make up the very country
Have no right in it
While the rulers enjoy,
The people remain starved and hungry.
Whom shall I complain to
Of this grievous injustice?
All around we hear the sycophants crying
'God save the king, Glory to him',
We the people are always judged.
Is there no Hall of Justice for the kings and the
monarchs?
The war-drums sound deafeningly
And the country's youth rush
To the battle-field to die with smiles on their lips.
But the tender and loving hearts, losing their dear
ones,
Weep bitter tears at home.
And the ravens fly over their roofs.
The royal road is ready..
The victorious chariot will soon pass by
Rejoice, O Citizens!
Have not your sons come back?
Did not your brothers return? Are your husbands dead?
Why weep for them? They sleep in the lap
Of the Goddess of victory.
A dark shadow of gloom and grief
Envelopes the country today,
God save the King, glory to him?
Rejoice, O Citizens,
For the king has come out of his fort today
After so many days.
The King's chariot is flying fast,
Trampling under the wheels
The returned heroes,
Trampling underneath
The brave crippled soldiers and the glorious dead.
O the one-armed and the one-legged
Soldiers of the King,
Keep off the roads and move away
If you want to save your lives today.
Well, friend,
That is exactly what happens,
The people fight and win the battles
And sing the King's praises,
The people provide their rulers
With food and apparel.
The people serve the king with devotion and humility
Only to be rewarded like this.
Isn't that a queer justice, friend?
We have to bow down and make obeisance
To the servants who are paid from our money.
Come, O you all, and have a look
At those glorious Public Servants of our land.
The wheels of Time revolve,
And yet here in our country
Over millions of men
Rule a hundred thieves.
It is no wishful thinking,
Nor is the day very far
When all the kings of the world
Will, in unison, sing
The People's Victory.
[Original: Raja-Proja; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
I am the bard of equality.
At the crossroads I sing,
Where pity and sympathy
Have made us all comrades and brother
It is a simple question,
We are all children of this earth,
But can you tell me
Why are some kings, rolling in luxury
And some subjects, starving in gutters?
But it is a queer philosophy,
If I state this simple truth
I am charged with sedition.
The subject can turn a traitor as simply as that.
But whom shall I ask
Why a king should not be condemned
As a traitor to the people
For his thousand crimes and follies
It is the people who create kings
And not the kings the people
Is that the reason
Why the king tortures the people?
Is that the way
They express their gratitude?
How can you smile, friend?
We are only coolies and servants
In our own home and land.
We have given up our manliness,
Our strength, and power.
And what have we got?
Rendered eunuchs we are guarding today
The lascivious harem of the tyrant king.
Whom shall I relate to
This sad and tragic tale?
In our Own land we are the ruled and the oppressed.
Those who make up the very country
Have no right in it
While the rulers enjoy,
The people remain starved and hungry.
Whom shall I complain to
Of this grievous injustice?
All around we hear the sycophants crying
'God save the king, Glory to him',
We the people are always judged.
Is there no Hall of Justice for the kings and the
monarchs?
The war-drums sound deafeningly
And the country's youth rush
To the battle-field to die with smiles on their lips.
But the tender and loving hearts, losing their dear
ones,
Weep bitter tears at home.
And the ravens fly over their roofs.
The royal road is ready..
The victorious chariot will soon pass by
Rejoice, O Citizens!
Have not your sons come back?
Did not your brothers return? Are your husbands dead?
Why weep for them? They sleep in the lap
Of the Goddess of victory.
A dark shadow of gloom and grief
Envelopes the country today,
God save the King, glory to him?
Rejoice, O Citizens,
For the king has come out of his fort today
After so many days.
The King's chariot is flying fast,
Trampling under the wheels
The returned heroes,
Trampling underneath
The brave crippled soldiers and the glorious dead.
O the one-armed and the one-legged
Soldiers of the King,
Keep off the roads and move away
If you want to save your lives today.
Well, friend,
That is exactly what happens,
The people fight and win the battles
And sing the King's praises,
The people provide their rulers
With food and apparel.
The people serve the king with devotion and humility
Only to be rewarded like this.
Isn't that a queer justice, friend?
We have to bow down and make obeisance
To the servants who are paid from our money.
Come, O you all, and have a look
At those glorious Public Servants of our land.
The wheels of Time revolve,
And yet here in our country
Over millions of men
Rule a hundred thieves.
It is no wishful thinking,
Nor is the day very far
When all the kings of the world
Will, in unison, sing
The People's Victory.
[Original: Raja-Proja; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
625