Millions of restless and excited audience have been trembling with an indomitable spirit
in the park-shore of people as a poem will be written:
‘When will the poet sound the toll of his arrival?’
This children’s park did not exist on that day
this garden with trees and flowers did not flourish nor did this pale afternoon with sleepiness reign over.
Then how sort of afternoon was there on that day? Then how was this hearty field of Dhaka covered with benches trees and flowers?
I know the black hands have an attempt
to obliterate all of the memories of that day
Hence I see in this hostile land devoid of poets
A poet plays a role against a poet
Prairies are against prairies
An afternoon against some other afternoon
Gardens are subversive to the same
The march as usual against the march...
Ho the unborn baby the poet of tomorrow
Dangling in the colourful cradle of the children’s park
Oneday you will know everything
For your sake I am writing left
the story of that most excellent afternoon
on the day this garden was with a different decoration
neither park nor flowers—nothing of these was there
only a desolate field covered with grasses and green
as a piece of an undivided sky
our liberty loving living green
merged with the green of this desolate field.
from the factory the iron—workers rushed to this field
carrying ploughs and yokes on the shoulders
the uncovered farmers came in flocks
snatching the arms of the police
came the blazing boys
having death in hands dreams in eyes
came the middle and the lower middle class
clerks with distress women old men prostitutes vagabonds
and in a body the little leaf-gleaners
like you too came to this field.
A poem will be recited for which what an intense yearning of men : ‘When will the poet sound the toll of his arrival... ?’
After struggles of hundreds of years
walking on spirited steps like Rabindranath
finally the poet anchored on the people’s stage.
Then the flashing water flowed over the boat in a moment
hearts became swayed, people’s ocean
submerged with a high tide
All the doors opened one after another
who dared to stop his fiery voice?
Trembling the stage of sunburnt sensation the prehistoric poet started echoing his immortal poem : ‘The struggle this time is a struggle for emancipation The struggle this time is a struggle for independence.’
Since then the word ‘Independence’ has been ours.
Translated by Jubak Anarjo