Published : Sunday, 29 March, 2015, Time : 12:00 AM, View Count : 16
NIRMALENDU GOON
Translated by Mahmudul Hasan Hemal
A poem would be written; from the dawn There await millions eager-rebellious audiences In crowd: "When will the poet come?"
Neither this park for children Nor the flowering tree-garden was there. The pale, dizzy afternoon - nowhere. How, then, was this city covering with parks, Benches, flowering trees?
I know the evil hand tends to wipe the history out; So, in the barren land deprived of poets, there stood Poets against poets, Fields against fields, Afternoons against afternoons, Gardens against gardens, March against March?
O the forthcoming infants, the poets of coming days, Dangling on chromatic cradles, one day You will know everything; For you I am penning that greatest afternoon. That was a different garden Nothing - the park, the Eden - was there Only was the horizon-merging, Grass covered empty green field Like the unfragmanted clouds in the skyline. Our ever-loving soulful green came merging by With this empty green field.
Covering heads and arms with the Red badge of courage Rushed in this field the iron-worker from industries, Herd of hungry farmers, plough and yoke on shoulders Came the invincible youth snatching arms from policemen, The middleclass with dreams behind eyelids, death behind fists Came the low cast, the hapless clerks, women, old, prostitutes, hobos And the children like you, the group of dry leaf-collectors. A poem would be read out - What an eager, invincible waiting of clamoring people: "When will the poet come? When?"
After years of lengthy toil Stepping up as firm as Tagore, Then, the poet rose on the people's stage.
Then in blink the boat touched the wave Hearts leapt up, ocean flew enormous When hearts open wide Who stops the voice of the thunderstorm? Shivering the people's stage under mighty sun, The Poet recited his undying poem: