The evening turns young
Drawing a moon on the forehead
The locality moves into its prime of youth
Puts on dark lipstick
Wear clothes exposing their bosoms
Practice of being a mountain spring
Practice of being gushing wild
The customers arrive to buy their meat
To weep about haves and have-nots
Maybe to satiate their insatiated deformed ugly wants and longings
They bite and scratch each and every soft part of body and soul of the moons that are sold to escape hunger or incarcerated in the abattoir
The locality turn quiet only at wee hours writhing in pain
The agony and teardrops are imbibed by the moons themselves
Women can be wife, paramour, friend, hunger satiator ~ everything for her loved man
But cannot turn a prostitute
Is it a matter of joke to turn into a prostitute
Is it that easy to satisfy the perverted longings of a person with dirty mind?
Is it that easy to bear the pain for thousand nights and let the soul die a thousand times?
Is it easy to accept a life that comes into being as the result of an unwanted ugly person's lust? Is it a matter of joke to become the victim of millions of invading germs of Syphilis, Gonorrhea, AIDS? Just because the concubine moons are there many women are saved from being raped by husbands and lovers; else thousands of women would have been raped on the streets every day. Please don't deride the gasping concubine moons selling themselves for hunger encaged in the suffocating chambers; If need to, laugh at those ugly longings. Laugh at those ugly men, ostracise them. Touching the lips of a prostitute with their lips, scouring the geography of a prostitute,why are they not known as prostitute men? Finally I beg pardon from those men, under whose canopy women enjoy the cool breeze of life even today, waits eagerly expecting a clear weather time.
All these words are not for those.
-Translated by Bibekananda Choudhury