Poetry

Four poems of

Quazi Rosy

 

Measuring Time

 

Stop, look at the crimson hue of the sky

There you’ll see the tapestry of Bangladesh

Calling out, ‘Mother’, like the waves of the river

The month of February mix with the blood stream of shahids

 

The mother language got its international status

To Bangla and to the Bangalees

Brought immense trust

Created resistance and showed protest

The avenues shievered at the bloodshed of the shahids

 

The air filled with the smell of gunpowder

The words and sounds of the language is heard

The sing the songs of liberation

Shall remain heard hundreds and thousands days

Echoed continuously

 

A few persons turned into thousands

They kept Shaheed Minar and Smriti Shoudha

in their heart

Earlier Bangalees used to call ‘ma’

They even call it now

In their heart

The birds of languages fly

Measuring the time.

 

 

Invention of Heart

 

Want to take away the sky-full of clouds, take away- only

give me a few sprinkles of sunrays, I want to see this world

anew.

 

This morning opened up that brilliance of light, for which

everybody will desire whole years with all the celebrations and

longing for good wishes. Behind piles of sufferings unspoken

voice of heart shall speak out to the Baishakhi thunder-storm…

The storm will speak to the river, the river will express it to

the path, path will show the paintings of the annual diary of

human beings that are left behind, the green field ‘turned

barren for drought, and there was deluge, the days, months

and years passsed, so Shraban wept, Ashwin smiled, Paush

shievered, then everyone knew . . . the condition of the Spring

poem under the glamour of the hotel.

 

 

The path will also show the water-body filled moonlight of

future, a diagram of satisfied mother that are engulfed by

green sari-end. Shall take away to the brim of desired receipt

of green revolution. There might not be bright sunlight, the

leaves-full trees do not smile, a flock of Shalikh will fight for

a few pieces of straws n the cropland . . and build a chirping

world of daybreak.

 

The peaceful melodies of drums could be heard in the waves

of processions day and night to express the liberation of

Bangla. Baishakh sunlight, Chaitra afternoon shall be

mingled with the prices of yearlong pure breeze in the

peaceful home. There’s no existance, no invention except the

serene candle-light of heart.

 

Liability

 

If you give me a pinch of belief

I will be indebted to you for rest of my life

 

If you give me a bit of sustenance

I will remain in your magnitude

 

If you give me a touch of courage

I’ll break apart all your adversities

 

Make me of your own

I’ll never become myself again

 

If you give me love

I’ll give you all the worlds of love

 

If you teach me to walk to the path of death

I’ll only die for you only

 

If you live for me

I’ll be ever indebted in all your existences.

 

Soul of Bangalee

 

The trail touches the green boundery

The waves touched the banks of broken stream

The Sunbeam touches the golden harvest

The days of autumn touched the seeds

 

Marry-go-round mix with heart

Blow away the accounts of the previous days

The boatsman rows near the river-market

To recover his earlier accounts

 

Chaitra breaks down all the prior records

Baishakh brings all the new aspirations

Enlivens the spirits of Bangalee nation

The future moments will turn into

tomorrow

 

A year is gone and a new years comes

Let everyday turn into the day of hope

Every person shall eat to his heart’s content

The courtyard of family enjoys new

harvest.

 

Translated by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman

Chairman of Bangladesh Institute of Philatelic Studies (BIPS)

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