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 my eyes, 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.
*shalik- a kind of bird * tandur- a kind of big bread