Poetry
Translated from Bangla by Fahmida Sharmin
A Poem from the Battle Field
In the battle field, I rescued
A poem from the enemy’s bunker
The sanguineous poem was screaming
Joy Bangla Joy Bangla to drive away
The enemies
The foam of the roaring sea flowed from his mouth
Blood was pouring from his eyes like the scary dance of Shiva
The cuts of bayonet on his body were as if
The earnest call of watermelon’s season
His rifle was roaring from his hand
And the victorious flag was shaking
The bloodstained poem was still saying…
…Joy Bangla, Joy Bangla, Joy Bangla…
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Father, You Are
You are the father-seed of green fields
Today Bangladesh has your crops
You and Bangladesh are interchangeable
I find your form in my homeland.
By your name, Padma-Jamuna
The metaphor of the sun in the deep red of the flag
Rivers flow in a zigzag way in the map
The rivers tell the story of your birth.
Birds sing the sweetest songs
Trees draw in green in your shadow
You are the dawn in the nursery school
The farmers’ music in the roots of a paddy plant.
This is how rotated in Bangla’s nest
Bangabondhu, you live in the abundance of nature
How should I separate the nation’s soul?
You are the pride of the united Bengalis.
———————————————————–
For the Dumb Girl
Your world sees the palm of silent night,
You are mute and alone. You float quietly in the illuminated
Dream’s Behula raft. And darkness laughs at your dumbness,
As though Kansa did not protest before the subjects, you
Can’t stop its laughter, you can’t put a whole limit
In the deaf end of silence.
You silence is spreading gradually
From light to darkness
From existence to its destruction, you are sinking
Now you swim in deep river
You are touching the two banks and counting loneliness
Destruction and the ripples of success.
You only look for soothing your eyes in silent scenes
You have given a deep stretch in the feel of language, breeding by birth.
Your world is breaking, you can’t hear
Your world is crying, you can’t hear
Your world is calling, you can’t hear
Your love wants expressed words with feelings
Your love wants endearing knot of words
Your music wants the woodnote of dry leaves
You did not express any of these
In the body of this wordy-world, you are an unbloomed parijat.
Your appearance is only listening to the rose fragrance
Your appearance is only the trees’ enchanting fruition
Your appearance is only the birds’ restless wings’ shaking
Your appearance is only the falling of dew drops on the stones.
Yet there is the roar of a lion in your silence
A freedom fighter’s shadow in your shadow
As though an inevitable eruption in your laughter
Today your world is heading towards the world
Standing over the sculpture of our national warrior
Our “Aporajeyo Bangla”
The adversarial independence of silence, quiet protest.
You are the silent period of our future movement
Scary penetrative cave of preparation, fearless and enlightened
Green inner realm of independence, the loyal flag.
You are the saddened mother’s Bangladesh of seventy one
You are a bright day of democracy angered by dumbness.
Fahmida Sharmin, an enthusiast of literary translation, has completed her MA in English from Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet
Illustration : Rajat
