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Issue 45/46 : July - Dec 2009 : Volume 12 No 1/2
Abu Hasan Shahriar
Perhaps that plain and smooth footpath
Is now covered by chemise of grass.
Shadow of the Deodar prolonged into waves,
Handfans dropped down out of our grips.
Streams of life, meaningless like a paper-made note
Has vanished away into the dark.
Still in the edge of the past left behind and afar
Dim light twinkles in the cornice of pain.
Stop the boat; let me jump into the black water,
Iíll swim to traverse the path that had been left back.
In the dins and bustles of life you have built
I see series and rows of faces of dead.
Yes, if I return, all would turn their faces away,
And maintain a safe distance from me.
Yet Iíll seek those eyes, keenly awaiting and anxious for me,
Whose name only the Deodar knows.
Translated from the Bengali by Nazib Wadood
Still, We Walk
Dragging down the body of time,
Another dense night falls long on us.
The calls, that come from a distant place
Cracking our daily lives, slice us
As if it were as sharp as a saw;
As if our loneliness was broken through the splash
Of steaming water. We groan as the sun-beaten
Dry field slips away like snakes-
And then, the echoing dawn breaks out.
We find our tattered selves tangling
Through the noisy time-
Still, we walk. We walk for the distant waves.
Translated from the Bengali by Hassanal Abdullah