A myth of a seizure
There is no one
nobody belonged to!
Only a mountain
the golden mountain
We have had our days on this golden mountain
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,
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?
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.