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
The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up
in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin
it appears there is no interruption
to this circus
the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud
from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa
the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning
all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the exudation
observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set