A myth of a seizure

 

There is no one 

no where

though

nobody belonged to!

Only a mountain

the golden mountain

We have had our days on this golden mountain

No silver,

no metal,

no copper,

no clay

Only glittering gold

Women’s breasts were like the gold dome of gold

men’s penis were like gold minaret

 

That petal of flowers covered with gold

Lotus, Roses, Jessamine,

white Jessamine

That time

we had village

A tale of a mountain could be seen through window

And we dreamt whole night for a day 

And at the day,

A tale became true.

We were starving sleepless

even though it became true

We had giants in whole village

But giants were very affectionate

And we had weak king

We had princess, prince, fight

We had abominable cry

Still people knew how to smile

How to take care

One day a tale become epic

A suited demons came in our village

They forced a burden of a wisdom of time

And showed us a dream of an orgasm instead of gold

Stream of bloody river get wider

Flattened fairy tales in length and width

Become modern poems

Our beloved village

Slowly went to nostalgic childhood

Oh !that mountain of gold

With scary bloody face

Greet us at the window of dawn 

 

Inside the scene 

 

It’s here ! and we are there! Inside this we are walking, talking holding each other .

It’s here where you always wanted to come. This golden smeared leaves seems love- postcards, flying towards you.

An waterfall flows beside, rare mesmerizing herd of deer gazing here and there, like the scene through window, we are walking through the scene, seen from the slow window attached vehicle and the scene from the pin hole of a good resolution camera. We are telling ourselves in a calm low voice, this is us, we exist here, and our voices are like we are far far behind the window or inside the window.

We are hugging each other with love and looking at the confident herd of deer running with their enchanting eyes. Inside the pin- hole of camera, through humane eyes that gone through pair of blind suranga of binocular we are watching that we are completely wild. And quietness comes with those tensed scenes and flinted dependence of fate- to the nature and fearless face of existence, may be it is not seen, still saw looking back, feels like steadfast gazing returns back to the green seeking cordiality towards the green and peaceful tree of golden body

Can a scene make such a blind?  

 

Rejuvenation

 

I have pledged all my unbearable silence to utter dark.

So a kettle drum sounds at born blind eyes.

Sounds from the drawn realm of mind by Botticelli

Wishes are jumping on brain constantly; wish to give birth, wish for death and for the moment to be born!

Still flock of birds fly

Funeral of a just expired child is going on down stair.  I’ve covered your eyes not to watch this honey.

We fall asleep

To welcome a new beginning!

 

About the Poet

Shimul Salahuddin, a Bangladeshi poet and journalist.

 

About the Translator

Nilanjana Adity, a Bangladeshi translator and poet.