Home
Back Issues
The Team
Contact us
 
Volume 2 Issue 7| August 2007

Inside

 
 

Original Forum Editorial

Month in Review: Bangladesh
Month in Review: International
Exit strategies: Some lessons from history- - Rehman Sobhan
What should have been in the budget-- K. Siddique-e-Rabbani
Tough politics but loose economics-- Nizam Ahmad
The effects of corruption -- Saifuddin Ahmed
Time to declare war on hunger-- Zahin Hasan
Where Deshantori ends, Phiriye Ano Bangladesh begins -- Mridul Chowdhury
A cloud of silence in Bangla Town-- Naeem Mohaiemen
Photo Feature
Epaar Opaar-- Udayan Chattopadhyay
The third pillar -- S. Amer Ahmed
Let's get political--Asif Saleh
Through Big Brother's eyes-- Tazreena Sajjad
Alternate universes: fairy tale, sci-fi or reality?-- Rashida Ahmad
Column: It's no joke

 

Forum Home

 

Poverty

Kazi Nazrul Islam

Poverty, you've empowered me,
Endowed me with Christ's dignity
And adorned me with a thorny crown,
Ascetic one, you've inspired me
To speak out and eye the world boldly
Deliver messages as incisively as a knife;
Your curse has made my veena a sword!

Arrogant hermit, your scorching flame
Has shorn my golden visage of its glitter,
Shrinking its sap and drying the soul early,
When I try grasping with emaciated hands
Beauty's bounty, O Impoverished One,
You step forward and lap it up.
A forlorn desert is all you leave
For my imagination to play with.
My eyes blaze at my own beauty!

My desires, tinged with pain-yellow buds,
Would rather bloom like the soft-white
Fragrant shefali flower. But Cruel One,
Like an unfeeling woodcutter, you break
All branches and destroy all blossoms,
My heart glistens like an autumnal dawn,
Wet with dew shed by sympathetic earth.
You are the sun, your heat dries up
Every dewdrop of pity. I shrink
Inside the shade that earth affords.
Dreams of Beauty and the Good shatter.
Pouring liquid poison down the throat
You ask: "What good is nectar now?
There is no parching sensation,
No intoxication, no madness.
Weakling that you are, not for you
To seek manna from heaven
In this sorrow-laden world!
You are a serpent, in birth singed
By pain! In a thorny garden you weave
Garlands. On your forehead
I leave this mark of woe!"

I sing songs, weave garlands, and feel my throat burn,
Snakebites have left their marks all over my body!

(Abridged)
Translation: Fakrul Alam

© thedailystar.net, 2007. All Rights Reserved