What a Fire
What a fire burns on, O confidante,
What a fire it is!
My eyes are filled with tears, O confidante
What a fire burns in my heart!
I went callous crazy, not forsaking the body,
on this moonface fell the shadow of my eclipsed love.
my heart swells up with waves of seven seas
What a fire bums on, what a fire it is!
[Original: Ki Anol jole go shoi; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]
poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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Send from Heaven Again
Send again, Hazrat! from Heaven
The message of justice and toleration!
I can no longer see this hateful hitting
between man and man!
Tell, them Hazrat! tell them all
Who pretend to follow thy divine call,
To love all men as the creatures of God!
And to regard all as the creation of God!
The virtue of Justice and Toleration,
Which was yours and which has made
Half the world to believe in you -
That virtue we have not learnt to value!
The slaves and dupes that we are,
The Queen and Hadith we merely hear!
Despised in the world we are
By disrespecting your commands clear!
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poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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The Month of Poush
Lo! Winter comes!
She comes across an ocean of sorrow and tears.
Beware! Beware!
She comes from behind the horizon enveloped
in thick mist.
With her advent, alas! in the Ieafy forest
A farewell dirge seems to go round
The parting Day (Ah me!) casts a sad look
Losing as she does-the Evening Star that
lights her path.
See! Winter sets in -
She represents the sadness of the year's
journey, a loss of Eternity,
The farewell season of ripe paddy,
the dread of new arrival-
Beware! Beware! She is come! -
Dry breath, and Oh! the choked voice
of a farewell deeply laden with tears -
Arise, wayfarer! Thou hast to cover
a long distance casting a sad look
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poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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Purer Than Pure Gold
O brother, purer than pure gold
Is the soil of my land.
Her soil and water
Her fruits and flowers
Quench our thirst and hunger.
as we drink from her milk-pot
To have the blessings of this Mother
Taking leftovers from her temples
Pilgrims are gratified, coming from various castes.
O brother prostrating on the dust of this land
Jewels fall down and welter,
O brother slumber of all in the world
Is broken by the touch of her magic stick.
Coating this soil and this mud
Learning from this land's good conduct
the whole world became civilized all the way
O brother this ascetic in every land
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poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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Mother, I May Have Been A Naughty Child
Mother, I may have been a naughty child,
But I am your child nevertheless!
You own the world, mother, you are the queen of the world,
And look at me, I go about in the habit of a beggar.
You are bent on neglecting me,
But I love you anyway, it is you, only you that I call upon.
Just as a child runs to his mother even after she has scolded him,
So do I run to you.
How could you push me away from you, mother,
You are my mother, are you not?
Oh, why did you cast me away, mother,
Leave me to play in the dust?
I would have been a better child,
Had only you been a little more kind to me.
I am sad and angry, mother,
I shall go away anywhere my eyes and my feet take me to.
I do not care now whether i live or die now, mother,
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poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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In the Desert's Sandy Vastness
In the desert's sandy vastness blossomed a bright flower
whose fragrance enamoured the universe.
The moon and tile sun,
the planets and the stars,
all wanted to possess it
The limitless sky bent low
in order to kiss it.
The brightness of that flower
Lit up God's throne.
Wrapping around her its many splendoured hue
the earth grew radiant.
Into the garden of that flower
flew a million birds a
and to clasp it in their breasts
yearned the leaves and the branches
of a thousand trees.
Men, angels, fairies - all craved it.
Saints, emperors and the penniless poor
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poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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I Sing of Heroes
I sing of Heroes -
The youth, the revolutionary,
Who armed with a sharp Excalibur
Today go forth in all directions
With valiant steps and steady
Upon a campaign for the impossible,
The Egyptian Pyramids of Antiquity,
Stand as a chronicle of such campaign,
Heroes whose mere breath
doth drive away into oblivion
The dead leaves of moth-eaten scriptures
Who hew down the haunts and
temples of false gods. .
And the time-honoured ale-house
Of the grand hypocrite
In the person of a reputed Moralist;
Whose mighty streams of. ideal reform
Swept away the long-standing nuisance
The awful and heavy stocks and stones of customs,
The old fossils of dead scriptures.
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poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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