There is a big crowd at the Police Station.
Suspicious soldiers in the city are taking away all firearms.
Frightened citizens, in accordance with military
directives, are depositing their shotguns,
rifles, pistols and cartridges like promised offerings
at some holy shrine. On the table
lay the saint's hand like a flower.
Only I disobeying the military directive,
turned a mild rebel. I am openly returning
to my room, and yet with me rests
a terrible firearm like the heart.
I didn't surrender it.
[Translated by Kabir Chowdhury]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem