How Clumsy It is

How Clumsy It is

I’m engrossed through the day arranging letters after letters in many different ways;
Sleepless nights are spent making figurines with letters.
I’m face to face with the wall covered with calendars.
I’m startled as if I’m sparked by an electric touch.

I wonder: “Do I perceive a jumping wallaby, or a cheetah,
or the mud-clad hands of Che Guevara in the jungle of Bolivia – armless and lonely fading away in memory?”
Perchance, there has been no real sunrise in many countries yet; freedom hangs on the line, the wounded conscience wakes as the hunch back with 40 lashes on back.

By arranging letters in many different ways, I think I have established something of the sunny health resort on my left hand side.

With the straight spine and the shiny eyes of Christ, I can blow out the fire of
crematoriums. Many beautiful boats are pulled away to the undiscovered country,
I can clearly visualise that landscape on the empty chest of my wall!
Often, I’m entangled by the poisonous creeper in the dark reminding the shivering cloak!
“Come to my heart,” calls out someone in a deep warm loving voice;
Are you Moulana Rumi ?
Or, are you Ho Chi Minh ?
It becomes immensely difficult to recognise the voice;
Part of my dream remains clumsy while
the other becomes crystal clear!

Original by Shamsur Rahman: Othyontho osposto theke j ai
Translated by Dr Khairul Haque Chowdhury
Blacktown: 28 October 2011

2011/pdf/How_Clumsy_It_is_678092834.pdf ( B) 

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