I dare not step in a brightly lit arena of any festival.

Recently, I dare not drag this featureless face of mine

to any light-flooded canopy.

 

 

On my way out and in through the Shethjee-alley

of love lane

or in the Muslim Institute

I notice frequent programs.

The evenings are stirred

with the indomitable waves

of breasts of women and girls

and their amorous gestures

and the whiteness of the skin of their abdomens.

So, having the dark desolation of man  made mountains

as my companion, under the queen moonlight cool

as the water of a green coconut,

I take the route to my residence.

 

 

I am averse to festivity;

my life has been offered to daily routine;

keeping my face buried in the moon-sketched

bosom of my own woman, I go on ahead with

a variety of duties and responsibilities.

 

 

Chittagong  1970

 

 

[Translated by Dulal Al Monsur]