At midnight I go to bed:
Seep doesn't come.
In the air I hear the cry
Of the oppressed.
Someones cry under bombardment,
Someones in hunger;
Alas! What can I do for them?
And what can I give?
My pen says, 'Pick me up
And compose such a poem
That the oppressors can get
A true lesson.'
My sword says, 'Seize me,
Let the war commence.
To live, you have to die
And to kill some beasts.'
I pick up the pen into one hand
And the sword into another;
My blood starts dancing,
I can neither eat now nor sleep.
a nice thought provoking poem about your conscious. sure we fight many battle within ourselves. a nice write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Poet-craft is very weak, not impressive at all. however receiving 239 votes, a miraculous one.
A very communal reader. No common poetic sense at all. It is a translation of a popular Bengali poem. You have not noticed its message. Why do you try to enter into the world of poetry carrying the dirty soul of Bankim Chandra?