Runa Apa's Sweet-Smelling Handkerchief Poem by Sayeed Abubakar

Now-a-days hatreds wriggle in a swarm
Within my body and soul. Now, when I
Look at politics, I feel hatred; when
At democracy, hatred; when at communism,
Hatred; when at fundamentalism, hatred.

To get rid of illiteracy, ignorance and
Superstition, I took shelter into the lap
Of the boastful civilization of Europe
And America. I got stunned when I saw,
There people are wriggling like insects
Into the fathomless white darkness. Mothers,
Taking their lads' virility, are playing
The nasty game like bitches. Fathers are
Sowing seed-corn into the wombs of their
Lasses. Covering my nose with my hand in
Hatred, I fled from there to enter again
Into Asia's darkness.

I thought, perhaps the sun-rays are hidden
Into the darkness of Confucius's beard;
The sun-rays, for which the village-women
Cannot dry their wet paddy and the naked
babies of Bachdanga cobblers-village
Are trembling in cold. But, alas, visiting
The shrine of Confucius, I saw, a nude
Dragon having nails like a leopard is
Molesting publicly the chastity of poor
Humanity. A wave of nausea engulfed me
And I started vomiting there in hatred.

Then where will I go to breathe freely
In the open air? I ran to the holy shrine
Of Shah Makhdum and at 3 a.m. of night
I became dumb seeing my preceptor
Asim Kumar Das along with the fakirs of
Home and abroad is taking ganja with joy
And polluting the air of Rajshahi. Air is
Wet with the smell of ganja. An odd smell
Of wild sex, like the bad odor of a rotten
Corpse, is flying in the air coming from
The Nimtali prostitution. Bush and Obama's
Wild boar-like two penises are pouring down
The sperms of democracy within the wombs
Of Afghan and Iraqi mothers. Runu Apa,
Give me again that sweet-smelling
Handkerchief; the handkerchief which
You wove with the smell of love and faith,
Where you built the minaret of love
With your tears and with the fragrance of
All roses cultivated in your love-garden.
Give me again that handkerchief; standing
On that minaret, I will give the azan of
Love; Earth will become holy again,
The cold yard of life will be filled with
The sweet-smelling sun-rays, the hungry
Naked babies of Bachdanga cobblers-village
Will cry out with joy drinking the date-juice,
'How sweet the date-juice and the sun-rays are! '

2 August 2010