MUNIR SIRAJ[1]
Counting Time
My poems will not be published in this season
I’ve nor written about the
Rainbow-clad sarees
Spangled and embroidered with golden threads,
Not about the smile on her attractive lips
Not about love and beauty and adoration have I written,
And one must have courage to freshen what I write
At this time of history.
I am not one of those who enjoy rumpus life in colours and lights.
In my vision is the lonely child under the open sky
Whose lips are wet with dew drops in the moonlit night,
My words are that of pain felt by the sick cyanosed child—
For the youth in his twenties with torn trousers
Who swallows popped up rice with water to curve pangs of hunger,
And how such thorned words will find expression in printed form?
In this world of sufferings
I have no reason to feel delighted even in the house
with flowers and decorations
Reflected with lights bright as day,
And who will accept such words as anything but poetry?
My words are masked with the face of the sick.
Now at this time of tormented reality and tortured mind—
My poems may be thrown into the dustbin as
Waste papers, leaflets, proclamation of politics,
And he who throws away my poems, upon his head
is the glittering chandelier,
Wine on his desk and dancing contractions absorbs his thoughts.
Nobody will publish my poems in this season
Even though I do not care,
I do not feel sad,
I do not feel nostalgic for not being appreciated.
This may not be the time for me,
But for certain
The hull of time is in my grasp.
I shall wait to see a smile one the sick child’s face
That he grows with the waves of time,
I shall wait to see the bold fists of the youth
Passing life without purpose— raised in the air.
When his eyes will glitter like the stars in the sky,
And on that day !
Tell me what’ll happen on that day!
Procession
Tied to a vast people fast and forward I move.
I feel certain that I know my destination.
What lightning speed, thousands,
Sword with sharp edges, this procession
charges ahead.
Truth has blossomed in my heart,
I can feel the warmth of life under my feet.
This mass with full breathes
Leads to a destination, of a life
Of greatness without fear.
The rolling mass of people move like
a flood of great force.
I feel certain
That I know my destination, the
End of the road, thorned and rough.
Sharp edged sword, this procession
Pierces through all obstacles.
The lustreless, world falls behind,
Fresh and new sprouts unfold on the way.
It is hearsay now
That the moment is ripe,
And the feet dare cross the mountains
most fierce.
Unfurl the Red Flag
When burying me
Wrap me with a red cloth
Bury me under the
Krishnachura tree, O dear!
Bury me beside such a river
Where sunlight of morning and evening
Make the water crimson.
Today I feel my blood dance
To conquer death, O dear!
When I’m dead
Let a red flag fly over my head.
[1] Munir Slraj (1946) First publication Birudhya Shrote Jattra (1976)