Runa Apa's Sweet-Smelling Handkerchief

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