Jibanananda Das (17 February 1899 – 22 October 1954 / Barisal / Bangladesh)
At a slightly slothful pace
A silent man quietly walks across the meadows
His autumn passes by mostly propped on two legs
With a mouthful of still shadow of a plough and ox.
To his own water, the Bhagirathi is a close relative.
He responds to none from his secret den.
A magpie robin whistles out of mind-
cold from the earth's last afternoon
perched on the roof of a post-mortem cell.
Whose corpse was it? Who dissected?
Why the world today bleeds so much?
The violin goes on playing the chorus.
Twilight though, the rustic man walks as if basking in the sun
Nonexistent, yet a woman becomes visible.
When the magpie blows away the dissected corpse
I can feel the advent of a primordial magpie.
[Translated by Faizul Latif Chowdhury]
Comments about this poem (A Magpie by Jibanananda Das )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings