The stench from burning leaves evokes memory.

Some girls make morning tea together with the heat

of burning sal leaves in a noisy cheer.

 

 

And some boys practice in wrong melody

with harmonium sitting in front of the sal grove.

And I’m duped in pangs of loneliness;

my own boat of solitude sways on in a turmoil of current.

 

The red flowers of silk cotton tree have withered away

and dropped down having the stench of burning leaves like menstrual blood.

 

 

The clouds of melancholy come from the farthest hillocks.

My morning is burnt; a strong nausea mingles

with the pangs of solitude.

In the field of my brain rains down ash;

let it do so; blood is burning; let it do so.

Only a flame of glittering mental perturbation goes on burning.

 

 

At night a peasant girl will wait standing on the bank of the stream.

Dense fog will make her wet.

Out of sleepy sight she will see water,

dark green forest and the land demon.

Tonight I’ll make her soaked in dews.

 

 

 

Dhaka: February 2, 1975

 

 

[Translated by Dulal Al Monsur]