Sitting on the peak of mountain, whose face
Frequently I see; walking with my beloved
On the streets of Rome, whose words I remember;
Like a pet pigeon, to whom my heart and body
Come back when the sun sets; setting whose eyes
Into mine, I see the beauty of a yellow bird
And seeing the prosaic fly of crow and shalik
I get every day speechless both in joy and wonder-
She is my Bangladesh, as dearest to me as water for thirst
At a noon of Chaitra; in a winter-morning she is my shawl
Of Kashmir, my safe home during a storm and rain, and the sail
Of my good luck upstream swelling like a tandur-bread.
Writing my name on that sail, I, the last boatman of century,
Have started rowing my boat laying stake to life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem