Syed Ali Ahsan
My East Bengal - Poem by Syed Ali Ahsan
My East Bengal, is like a wonderous cool river
What an amazingly cool river is my East Bengal
How quiet and again how gay
In sudden overflowing abandon.
Once loud and noisy
Many a time sleepy and lethargic;
At other times
A continuous flood of subdued voice.
You are bottomless
In the overflowing water of monsoon.
A heaven of generous heart,
A wide expanse of life
Stretching beyond the horizon.
A greeting like the boat
Swimming onward with sweeping current,
Like the full-throated song of the boatman
Singing with abandon
From his perch upon the bow.
My East Bengla appears to me the charming but sweet arbour
of a huge mangosteen leaves that spread dark cluster
on the rise of the dusk like the fathomless lake,
like dark hairs of the clustered clouds
and peace that fascinates anguish.
My East Bengla rains sweet love
that touch the heart of moistened azure sky
and entwines golden creeper around mangosteen
as if hairs are kept dishevelled looking on to the sky
with endless thoughts comfortably gladden moment
when many a cloudy feathers overwhelm the sun,
then insensitive smells of heaps of paddies, mud and water
seem to be bewildering;
here sufferings of parting sweet heart anxiously waiting
with eternal fear, hope, and disappointment towards journey of love
groom's alien palace, love tryst, three leaves
and a branch of Kodombo tree bows down to kiss the land
and there are many other trees, plants, creepers
with those blue, yellow, violet, purple or white flowers flood-
there are innumerable flowers as if dozing in their own
way in peace,
sleepily there lay black hairs like the eyes of the crow
as if a red lotus touches the heart of the body itself like
the azure sky:
You are my East Bengal-
the body of an accomplished gladness of sweet
[Translated form 'Amar Purbo Bangla']
Comments about My East Bengal by Syed Ali Ahsan
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye