I walk through this burnt village of Bengal,
Once an epitome of culture, ripped apart by religion.
A little girl hiding in the bush, in a hushed voice said, "They are coming".
I saw mad men, intoxicated with religious ideal, frantic with hate, too many of them.
Laughing like hyenas, took the little girl, violated her and stabbed her to death. And I didn't as much as move.
Oh! It feels like a sleep paralysis.
One of them shouted, "Salvation! "
His evil scream should've shaken the Gods!
But they didn't come.
I woke up.
Panting, horrors of the dream kept me awake for the night.
It's a curfew, it's a riot, no internet to express my feelings. The only thing I can see on the streets, patches of blood.
Will salvation ever come?
How long should I wait for salvation to come! I don't recall the name of the girl. Does it matter?
She might be Ramza, who loved to doodle, or was it Durga, who loved math?
In a country far away from here, the kimono of a little girl still burns, but Salvation never comes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem