I roam here to this direction of the town.

Fruit shops, sky scrapping residential hotels,

restaurants and cafes catch

my unquenchable attention

boozed. Red lights give  signals to block vehicles;

the traffic police take their positions on the poor

leprosy-stricken street

to control the speed of vehicles.

 

The other day I found an insane girl,

short of any cloth,

dancing on the island of the street.

She was smiling an invincible smile

that did not resemble that of Mona Lisa,

nor did it remind that of a prostitute girl

of this town. Fumbling the meaning of this

meaningless smile, I spent the whole afternoon.

 

Those who are engaged in business or jobs

are very busy; moments of their geometrical world

are limited to lines; they are the totality of

triangles and quadruples. Such thoughts, then,

thrive like unchecked creepers over the cornice

of my brain. Out of a self satisfaction

I award myself Sitara-e-Imtiaz.

It seems to me that everyone here

has turned into a lifeless stone

out of their stimulation of work,

and the ongoing movies of sorrows,

happiness, smiles and tears

do not touch them, even if they do, cannot create

an impression on heart.

In this city, only I have unlimited leisure.

 

Afternoon turns into night,

and gradually my heart

out of the rage of dissatisfaction begins to get burnt

with hatred and aggression.

 

I feel to the core of my heart;

I do not have any definite work for the next day.

Seeing the red lights of the street, I dare hope,

like all the vehicles, could untamed unemployment

come to a halt.

 

 

1969

 

 

একজন বেকার যুবকের প্রলাপ’ কবিতার অনুবাদ

[Translated by Dulal Al Monsur]