Once we went on a journey
through a dense opaque fog.
Suddenly our path became illuminated
by the flash of light in horizon.
I wish I ate the ancient koi of Kurulia
fried especially by your own hand.
I wish sitting like a crow in the veranda of Munsi House
I enjoyed your scrubbing.
Wandering over the whole world,
I come back for you
to knock at your door . For you
I defeat the maddened sword of poverty.
Why don't forget if you can?
Forget our walking nights accompanied by the Moon.
Forget the dewy grasses in the Niaz field.
Keeping the stone of Paharpur on the left ,
crossing the canal if anyone approaches the moat,
never he comes back --- you knew it well,
nevertheless why did you allow him
to enter the heart of the hut?
Poetry is nothing but the memory of adolescence;
The melancholic face of my mother often remembered by me;
Poetry, the yellow bird sitting alone on a bough of Nim tree;
To catch the last train I reached the station running.
I noticed the signal of blue light on.
The train, like Despair, suddenly left the station
playing on its cruel whistle.
Last night Death drove its hand into my room.
Through the gap of window
that long hand, like the feeling-power of a blind man,
advanced a bit towards my bed.
It's not mere turning off
but keeping the genius of eyes closed
from the attack of sight bent on the ground.
Eyes touch severely the edge of deadly blood.
The smell of rice hurts my nostril.
As soon as I get back my conscience,
I notice all the doors closed.
When I dare open them all,
the capitalists frown at me addressing as blind.