20+ Best Sayeed Abubakar Poems You Need To Read

Sayeed Abubakar is a modern epic-poet of Bengali language.

If you’re searching for famous poems ever that perfectly capture what you’d like to say or just want to feel inspired yourself, browse through an amazing collection of best known Geoffrey Chaucer poems, most famous Matthew Arnold poems and selected Vikram Seth poems.

Famous Sayeed Abubakar Poems

‘Coolies And Day-Labourers’ By Kazi Nazrul Islam

Once I saw on the rail-way, –
a lord pushed down a man just for being a coolie.
My eyes were burst with tears;
will the weak be beaten this way
throughout the world?

The steam-vehicle was made
with Dadhichi’s bones;
The lord got on that,
the coolies were fallen underneath.
Do you say you have paid wages?
Shut up, great liars!
Tell, by paying how many pennies to the coolies,
how many crore you have earned!
Motor-cars ply through high-ways,
ships cruise over seas
and steam-vehicles run on rail-ways;
the whole country is filled with machines;
tell, whose contributionsare all these?
With whose blood, are your buildings
painted red?
Remove the glass from your eyes
and read what is written on each brick.
You may not know
but each and every grain of dust
knows the meaning of those roads,
vessels, vehicles and palaces.

The good days are coming;
day by day,the debt has increased enough,
it is high time to pay.
Those who broke the hills with hammers, crowbars and pick-axes, their bones are strewn
on either side ofthose hill-cut roads;
those who, in order to render your service,
became labourers, porters and coolies;
those who, in order to carry you,
smeared their holy bodies with dust;
they are only men,
only gods they are, I sing their song;
new revolution comes setting her foot
on their afflicted bosoms!

You will recline at ease on the third floor
and we will stay underneath;
still, we will call you god, those days are gone by!
The helm of the world’s vessel will remain
at the hands of those
whose bodies and minds are soaked
with the affection of soil!
I will pick up the dust ofhis walking
on my headasa sacred offering
who journeyed withothers
through the tiresome roads.
Smeared with the blood
of the pain-striken suffering of the world,
today the new sun of new dawn is rising
reddened above the horizon.

Smash today all the rusty shutters
of narrow congested hearts
and take offthe artificial garments
covering colored skins.
Unlock all the bars
and let all the winds of sky,
which have become coagulated blue,
enter this bosom besotted with joy.
Let all the skies break down upon our cottages;
Let the Sun, the Moon and stars
fall down upon our heads.
Rush, all people of all countries and of all times,
to this confluence, and standing here,
listen to the flute of harmony.
If one is tormented here,
that torment plays equally
into all people’s bosoms.
Here, one’s dishonour is shame
to the whole mankind,
humiliation to all people.

Today is the day ofupheaval
of great Human-beings
and of great pain;
God smiles in heaven,
Satan trembles underneath.

Translation: 17.6.2017 Sirajganj

Last Words On Earth

If I leave earth, I wish to leave saying it
to the whole world: ‘I have no sorrow in mind.’
‘No sorrow I have’—writing these words and
wreathing them in mind, I wish to leave silently
feeling the warmth of happiness on my body.

I have seen Rose; its thorn has not got shelter
into my mind. Being a Chital fish, I have swum
in the unfathomable youth; age and decay
have never been able to touch my soul.
Winter has retreated; cuckoos have started singing
the song of flowers throughout my existence.

If I go back, I wish to go saying it: ‘True and
beautiful is the muddy hut made with affection
on the desert of life. True and beautiful are
Night’s moonlight, Day’s civilization, mother’s
honey-call, child’s face and beloved’s sweet words.’


Being a city-monk, I have walked enough.
Enough I have wandered on the pied myna’s foot
in the pompous sun of electricity to look for art’s food.
In anger, grievance and pain, I have spitted much
on the face of capitalism and imperialism.
Uttering the name of humanity, I have passed many black days
on the high way wet with blood. Singing of paper-flowers
and stone-paradise, the cuckoo’s throat in the long run
has got tired.

Now soil calls me. The coolness of intense green
and the silence of unbounded blue call me.
Two banks of the Kapatakkha river and the fig-trees
standing on those banks call me for ever.

I will go back to the soil where my fore-fathers
are taking eternal rest.I will go back
to the shade of trees, the fields of grass
and the maddening perfume of Shefali flowers.

A magpie whistles in the darkness-wrapped morning air
sitting on the bough of horseradish tree. Drinking
its whistle like hemlock, I, the Socrates of poetry,
will lie for ever on the lap of eternity.

The Mujibnama: Book 2

The Mujibnama
An Epic on Sheikh Mujib, the Father of Nation
by Sayeed Abubakar
Translation in English: Sayeed Abubakar

Book 2

Having a bright smile on face, he returned
With a heart swollen with self-confidence
To his home named ‘Number Thirty Two’. His
Daughter, as if a golden lotus of
Heaven bloomed just, found out her palace of
Affection on his broad bosom. Saying
‘Hasu’, he fondled her keeping his hand
Wet with tenderness on her forehead. He
Sighed and started speaking: “O my daughter,
I know your ever busy father roams
Here and there leaving you at home or he
Passes his time into the darkest cell
Of prison; you all look expectantly
For his return which way the swallows
Look expectantly for rain-water. I
Return to you just to flee away from
You again. I remain indifferent to
What you eat, what you wear and how you pass
Your days and nights. Really, to be a
Daughter of a leader is a matter
Of sorrow, o my babe, I know, I feel.”

His daughter replied in sweet voice:
“You are the friend to Bengal; the people
Of Bengal love you more than their lives; our
Happiness lies in it. Don’t get worried
Thinking for us.” Fazilatunnesa,
The mother to Bengal, came with slow steps
Towards them. She entered into the talk
Between father and daughter: “We have set
You free like a bird of forests. That’s why,
You have become Bangabandhu now in
Bengal. Do not forget it ever.” In
Reply, said Bangabandhu: “Yes, you have
Set me free; that’s why, I wander on the
Streets of Bengal to find out the looted
Liberty of the people of Bengal.”

“Talk to mom, Dad. I will just go and come
Back with a glass of milk for you.” Saying
It, his Sun like daughter ran away, as
If a storm. The leader of seven crore
Bengalis stared at that storm with pleasant
Eyes for a moment and then turned his eyes
To his better half: “Listen, O Hasu’s
Mother, they won’t be able to subdue
Us any more. The people of Bengal
Have risen up. All have realized in
The long run, they are not our brothers; they
Are our enemies, our killers. How long
We will tolerate their torture! Bleeding
Souls of the brilliant teacher martyr
Shamsuzzoha and Sergeant Jahurul
Haq don’t let me sleep; how compassionately
They stare at my face and calling me, say,
‘O Mujib, don’t let this blood go in vain.”
I cannot let the blood of martyrs go
In vain at all in this Bengal. Listen,
We will defeat them in the battle of
Imminent election of East Pakistan.
This time my Bengalis will not mistake.”

Mrs. Mujib, the Mother to Bengal,
Sighed, saying, “May God accept it. But there
In a gathering of his supporters
Maolana Bhashani declared that he
Won’t fight in the field of election; his
First demand is food, then election. I
Can’t realize politics any way.
It’s difficult to realize when who
Throws stone at which beehive.” “Don’t get worried,
Renu. Time will say who is wrong and who
Is right. They wanted to entrap me by
Filing a false case named ‘Agartala
Conspiracy’ against me. Questions were
Raised against my ‘Six Points’. And I was called
Traitor. Tell me, Renu, who has ever
loved this Bengal more than me, more than
Sheikh Mujib? I recognize every inch
Of Bengal; almost all the faces of
Bengal’s men and women are known to me;
Mujib can’t treason against his soil and
People. If God smiles on us, I will make
This country golden Bengal you will see.”

“I have desired it throughout my whole life.
Never I wished that your milk-white image
Get stained with a little black spot. You are
The leader of seven crore Bengalis,
So dear to them; this love can be purchased
On earth by no money or wealth. I wish
This identity of you lasted in
Bengal for ever. For Agartala
Conspiracy Case, that time you were in
Prison. Thirty five persons were accused.
Trial was going on. Going to visit
You at prison, I came to know that the
Government of Pakistan wanted to
Parole you in order to have you in
An urgent conference. I realized
That it was another conspiracy;
They wanted to destroy perpetually
Your strong personality and your bright
Political existence. I got frightened;
It seemed to me that you would slip this time
On the mud of conspiracy. In a
Frenzy of despair, I shouted, ‘Beware!
Don’t take parole. If they want to set you
Free, unconditonally they have to
Set you free then. Captive Mujib will go
On a conference- I won’t tolerate
It. If something happens like that, then keep
In mind, while coming back home, you will find
Your Renu no more.’ Saying it, like a
Lass I started crying aloud. You know,
I have been your life-partner since my teen
Age, never did I revolt against you
This way. Just after then, Sergeant Jahurul
Haq was murdered. The whole country roared in
Anger. ‘Nineteen Sixty Nine Uprising’
Took place. On twenty second February
You got released from prison. The Bengalis
Gave you a warm reception on twenty
Third February at Racecourse Ground and
You returned home like a hero having
The title ‘Bangabandhu’.” Saying it,
She wiped her eyes, as if wet with dawn’s dew.

Bangabandhu, the leader of poverty-
Stricken people, said in a choked voice:
“Truly, you saved me that day from a great
Danger awaiting me. If you did not
Press me hard that way, something might happen
Terrible. My friends often mock at my
Madness for my wife. If they knew the cause! “

Having the glass of milk at her hand, his
Daughter, as dear as his eye-ball, came
With a slow step. Mrs. Mujib, flooded
With passion, somewhat embarrassed for the
Sudden arrival of their daughter, said
In a cramped voice: “I have cooking. Let me
Go. You talk father and daughter.” When she
Left the room hurriedly for the kitchen,
They two saw a light of serenity
Spread over her face. Both the father and
The daughter stared with a steadfast look on
Her going, as if they were watching a
Spring-wind going back giving them a soft
Touch of peace providing a kind
Of sweet coolness within their bodies and
Souls. Absent-minded Mujib, who is the
Greatest man of Bengal, got back his sense
By the call of his daughter, “Milk, Dad.”
He sat down on the sofa. Then he took
The glass of milk like a gentle boy from
The hand of his motherly daughter and
Started sipping, as if he were drinking
The sweet water of heaven’s brook. Drinking
The milk to the lees, he stared with a smile
At his daughter; a brightened line of a
Green forest spread over his face: “How is
My cow, Hasu? How selfishly I drink
Her milk! I don’t get a chance to meet her.”

“She is quite well, Dad. When we go to her,
She stares at us like a dumb and look to
And fro for someone. She has, perhaps, come
To know by this time that you are very
Busy with country, party and politics.
That’s why, she keeps quiet every moment.”

The blue of the great leader’s two eyes get
Moist with tears. The thunder of Summer-storm
Is in his voice but, what a billowy
Unfathomable Bay of Bengal flows
Within his heart! —”O my God! I had just
Forgotten her. When I get ready for
Outgoing in the morning, remind me,
I will meet her first, then I will leave home.
All the birds of this Bengal, all the trees,
Animals, flowers, fruits, rivers, canals,
Bogs, fields and the desolate extensive
Plains—they all know me. Farmers, labourers,
Coolies, fishermen, boatmen, barbers and
All the veiled women of villages, all
The shopkeepers of village-markets, the
Teachers of schools, students, youths, mobs—they all
Forget their sorrows seeing your father.
Seeing your father for once, they all see
The whole country in front of their eyes, the
Country on whose chest has sat firmly the
Autocratic martial beasts of Pakistan,
Who sitting there are sucking like leeches
The life-blood of seven crore Bengalis.”

No sooner had he completed his speech
Than his second daughter Sheikh Rehana
Along with Sheikh Russel, his youngest son,
Came running with laughter and making fun.
Instantly, a delight-fair was set up
Surrounding their dear father. Leader was
He of seven crore people, a strange fire-
showering speaker, a magician of
Musical words who robbed the hearts of men
And women; the greatest Bengali was
He in thousand years; but now he became
Suddenly a loving father among
His dearest son and daughters. His eldest
Daughter, as if she were his far-seeing
Mother Hasina, was watching that scene
With the eyes of the goddess of earth. With
The pea-cock eyes, she was watching the great
Leader’s sweet game with his daughter and son
And was saying in her own mind: ‘What a
Loving world of illusion it is and
How beautiful Number Thirty Two house is! ‘


it’s the month of rain-
eyes are wet like olive-leaves;
heart is sunk in pain.

sky is full of mirth;
autumn has spread her rich crops
on the lap of earth.

morning smiles in trees-
spring has stirred flowers and birds;
sweet is southern breeze.

snow with fog and cold-
lambs are on the mountain-tops,
trembling young and old.

wind bites in thick fog;
winter has spread her sharp wings
everywhere on earth.

‘The Golden Kabin’ (Sonnets) By Al Mahmud

The Golden Kabin

No gold coin I have; Don’t demand any dower, O my Doe;
If you take, I can give my dowerless two hands.
I haven’t stored any self-selling gold,
for the cunning frown wounds and hurts me all around everywhere.

If you love me, in return I’ll give my kiss
It’s my only business, for I haven’t learnt how to deceive a lady.
If you give your body, you’ll get mine, too. O my Love,
no capital but body I have, by which I can purchase ornaments for you.

If you get nude, you’ll find me simple;
Even no olive-leaves will remain there, which may envelop my virility;
If you start tasting, please give me a share of those fruits, too;
In consciousness and unconsciousness we’ll remain ever-known to each other.

Although all my distressed veins and arteries wounded severely,
I ain’t defeated, O Love, poets don’t know how to give in.

Supporting my hands, O my venomous snake, ascend on my Pati1;
Fold up your hood now, don’t compose any black verse within my heart.
Whatever darkness you can pour out by each of your snaps,
every moment I become bluer than that darkness in fear of your bite.

In which tricks and artifices have you worn the Nilambor2 sari?
Flowing in drops, the color of night becomes more black.
I think I can jump into that deep darkness
if you pick up my death spreading out the edge of your sari.

Would you permit me to write down my name without any title and shine,
with the scratch of slow trembling nails on your chest? If you get shy,
I’ll wipe off the first letter, the blood-alphabet, not Aryan and ancient,
with my untiring wet kisses.

O Kalabati3 mine, make the sport of Bangali race wavy,
the sport which Batsayan did not know and knew no girls of the Aryan.

Turning round the curve of your neck, come near, O my wild duck;
Uncovering your feathers, give me the ease of your warm body.
I pass my days bowing down to Nature. Today the name of this man,
skillful in words, will open the door of ecstasy.

The arrow of Kakka’s4 words, the command of sylvan soul,
summons you eighteen times, hear attentively, O my eighteenth.
Untie your closed serpent-like plait with your own fingers then ascend on
dark-blue bed-sheet and get seated nude with me to quench our two thirsts.

Let’s go to an uncultivated valley
having the sound of two violent waters with us, like that of a hungry river.
Untie all the folds of your body like the soil of a bar;
May the flesh of Ugol5 fish be happy in your mud;

Moistening all the artistry of pleasure with the lake dye of lips,
let us sink fast, O Love, into the revolving riddle of blood.

If you want to visit my shrine, walk slowly, O my sweet Love.
The blood of Mukundaram6 is mixed with this soil.
Catching the torn palm-leaves, let us recite his verse.
We don’t know how many drops of tear there are on this torn palm-leaves.

Would you come, O wild lass, being the desire of a poet?
Then be aware that python is my totem in poverty.
Like a fresh murder, I’ll draw the vaccine of cinnabar
and the love of a poor man on your red forehead.

How can I win you, my Love,
by which Mantra of what clan, can I take you at my home?
I’ve my belief in Kapila7 only. Has Love ever taken refuge in religion or
in any Sanghha8? Remember, only the grass of grave remains after all deaths.

As long as you’ve the form of copper-colored body, you’ve value;
If you lose it ever, nothing exists more; then it is history which bursts alone into laughter

Have the fruits of cotton-plant exploded beside my home?
Wear the garland of Gunja9, O girl, the fowler of my heart;
Where have you kept the earthen bottle of Mahua10?
Please carry it here in this moonbeam and let us rinse it down together with pleasure.

Who says that I won’t recognize you in the aboriginal dress of a fowler?
Does a hunter ever mistake to recognize the clan of birds?
In whatever Mantras Khona11is opened to unravel the mystery of Nature,
remember, that same magic lies within the souls of poets.

I’ve learnt from the book of Nature from my childhood that
all-piercing root of Green pierces even love; No everlasting
society has ever been built anywhere; The fingers of all artists
of Egypt, Greece and Serasine have failed to do that.

By the strike of Age’s plane, all the arts tremble in fear;
O Girl, the lips of a poet are not more painful than that.

I’ve no faith in Pisces, Girl; I’m a man of Kauma society
who only create the sound of simple equality in your town.
I’ve never composed a single verse after the name of any chieftain;
I’m the poet on whose baldhead always hangs the law of oppressor.

Long long ago my ancestors were slaves of some emperor;
They used to compose the pound of sentences selling their conscience;
That scandal, yet now, hisses in the wind of Bengal;
Alaul12, the rider of the horse of Rosang, hides his face in shame.

Isn’t it better to be a poor minstrel, who is looking for
the neighbour living in Arshi nagar13?
Braid my hair today making diadem over my head;
Become my Aktara14, O Love, I would be your young Lalon15.

All the mistakes I’ve made due to the undesired sentiment of devotion, 
Today I’ll rectify them all and create the warbling of new words.

Having lost your gold ear-ring are you crying, my Love?
The boughs of Anaj16 bend down outside in terrible storm;
Is it possible to get back the Jeor17 from the hands of a thief?
Perhaps the coquette of the thief has worn that ring now.

All the elegant conscience of this country has been eaten into by worms;
Selling the brain, the learned society is happy very much;
How long can the truth be concealed under the lid of civility
when the art of a rebellious poem cries loudly within the soul?

Don’t break your bracelet; yet there are some lath of sandalwood
at my home, by which I’ll fill up the holes of your ears.
In the discourse of Dhrupada18, suddenly I have sung the Kheur19;
Pardon me, O virgin, forgive the songs of this upset cuckoo.

The gold cat will drink all the milk of your bowlhow long would you
tolerate, O unsteady girl, pretending that you’ve noticed nothing at all?

The age of Monosa20 has touched me in my profound sleep.
A serpent has entered, O Chaste, into the bridal chamber of iron;
Will we notice ever a new morning after this very night
and the sun, the emperor of warmth, which rises everyday?

My whole body, getting blue by the rage of venom, trembles in fear;
O my Behula21, lift me up now over your body; Embrace me, O my chaste Love,
binding me by your two hands; Today the son of Ebb, who always blasphemes
gods and goddesses, will lie down on your immersion.

If my life comes to an end for the fraud venom of age,
start bewailing with your disheveled hair.
Hearing your cry, the life-bird will return breaking the cage of death.
Viewing the audacity of life, may the life-eater Zam22 bow down its head.

Rending your dress, start dancing, O Love, beside my death;
May the chubby coin of you reverse the system of our living.

Through the current of ancestry, O my proud Love, you’ve got this verdant
splendor in your body; Remember, those ancestors had once built
the city of Pundra. They all have been the food of soil. But I didn’t know
the roots of Banyan trees always drink the blood of a black nation.

My dwelling is also in the country of red-colored soil.
My forefathers were pride of Pattikera23 city.
The waves of monstrous bush have devoured all.
The praise of Amitava Gautama collides now with the screech of crickets.

In the Past, of whose fear, the Vedic fire of dividing men into classes
dared not advance one inch crossing the Karatoa24; Have the foundations
of their dwellings been eaten into by the worms of hypocrisy?
The sound of elegant equality frequently goes futile.

The Borgis25 are looting our paddy, the whole country is being filled with blood and death;
O my dark-complexioned Love, the danger of crops is here more serious than your beauty.

The savage have raised their hands by the Mantra of laborer-equality;
Behold, O Love, peace has set in the country of Hiensung;
Let us stick the badge of a hero on the dresses of them
who carry the invitation of equality for the working class people in Asia.

May the equal distribution of crops be our only religion;
Start singing the song of extirpation of class, motivated by the Mantra
of utmost relief. Pronounce such a speech of love with courage
so that no class-distinction can ever enter into the folk-religion.

Then if you want to refer to the context of lust, come behind
the concealment of corn-field and uncover the yellow of your youth;
From the side of crops how much love I can give,
I’ll give you more than that, the cordial affection of coitus.

I’ve caught your silk-sari with much bashful courage;
O my sweet-voiced Love, don’t delay, acknowledge me your hero.

I’ve heard from my boyhood, O Girl, Bangladesh is the lying-in-room for wise men;
All our past wisdom-trees were born here during the incessant rain;
See now into that room of knowledge, there hang only some depressed bats.
O my amiable Love, how difficult it has been today to have faith in the Past!

How would I accept it’s the birthplace of Srigyan26
and Shilbhadra27 had inhaled the first air from here?
If we exclude its part, it loses its everything mentionable;
only a few sinanthropous cough in our schools.

Within the last exaltation of this stone-age, where would you flee,
O Girl upset, in which bush would you hide yourself?
In your body the color of an independent deer remains, too.
When the blades of stones are thrown from behind the curtain,

the existentialist-giraffes have lengthened their individual necks
into our art-centre and all our workmanship.

Suddenly hearing the sound of high tide at midnight
from the village adjacent to the river, a farmer gropes
for his beloved wife whether she is beside him or not
who opens the door of wealth and corn;

Likewise, grasp my hand, O Love, at this blind night, full of fear.
If the smell of crops remains in your body,
the enemy of food may bring the ferocious attack of greed;
we’ll return that panic created by food-greedy Rahu28.

As a peasant of upland, who eats his food standing in water,
establishes his utmost right on the newly risen bar,
that way I’ve hoisted the flag of justice over your head;
The flag of mine, bright colored, is firm both in kindness and right.

Behold, the northeast is trembling in fear by the ear-splitting thunder;
Swearing by the name of storm, tell me, O Girl, whom are you of?

Open your two eyes, O my beautiful Love, reddened by the odor of Loban29,
the two designed borders of your sari tremble by my breath;
Had you been the sylvan pigeon bent down to shyness?
You’re trembling as if you were the root of a cane fallen in storm.

Your chignon has been unloosed in wind, O my smiling girl; look at me,
crossing your Tikli30, my heart palpitates in fear. All the villagers waiting
for you, having paddy in their auspicious winnowing platters; the Khai31 of Binni32
are spread on the yard; 33 Attar and Aguru34 on your bed.

Having accepted this lucky Dhan-durba35 with reverence,
loosening your Purdah36, O my noble Love, put up again your hair into a bun.
Your sisters-in-law of the same age have caught the threshold, coming to you;
Be simple like them and listen to the first Sabak37 of your family.

All the women from my mother’s side have gathered to welcome you as a bridegroom;
O Girl, say spontaneously like the waves of a river’Kobul! Kobul! ‘

For Rain’s sake, O Bibi, for sesame-colored paddy’s sake,
For the sake of fish and meat and for the sacred milch animals’;
For plough, yoke and scythe’s sake, for the sake of windy sail,
Believe, no poet neglects the religion of heart.

If I ever profane my tongue breaking my promise,
may you turn into the blade of lightning;
and rending my heart, may your divorce fall down upon my head.
Then, O my Love, give me no piece of fish for my health.

Which way the innocent waves break down
on the body of a water-bird floating in the night’s river,
likewise I’ll incessantly pour out all my kisses
on your body setting you free from the chain of shyness.

If it happens otherwise, O Banu,38 for the mother tongue’s and the love-poetry’s sake, may your curse fall down upon my head like a thunderbolt.

‘Man’ By Kazi Nazrul Islam

I sing the song of equality—
There is nothing greater than man,
more majestic than man.
There is no difference of country, age and person;
No partition in religion and caste;
Man is man’s kinsman throughout all ages
in all countries, in every house.

‘O worshiper, open the door!
The god of hunger is at your doorstep
and it’s the time to worship! ‘
Awakened by such a dream,
the agitated priest opened the door of temple.
Surely, he might be a king today
with the boon of god, he thought.
A wayfarer with shabby dress
whose body is thin
and hungry voice is feeble,
said, ‘Open the door, o Father;
I have been hungry for seven days.’

Suddenly the temple got closed;
went backthe hungry man.
It was dark night;
the gem of his hunger burnt on his way.
The hungry man said loudly,
‘O god! That temple
belongs to the priest, not to you.’

Yesterday there was sweetmeat at mosque;
immense meat and bread remained uneaten;
That is why, the mollah is overjoyed.
At that moment, a traveler came
wearing shabby dress
and said, ‘O Father,
I have been unfed for seven days.’
Getting annoyed, the mollah said,
‘What a botheration!
You are hungry—then die
going to the ground for dumping dead cows!
O chap, do you say your prayers? ‘
The hungry traveler said, `No, Father! ‘
The mollah shouted, ‘Then o rascal, get out! ‘
Carrying meat and bread,
he locked the door of mosque.
The hungry traveler went back
and said walking, ‘O God!
I have lived for eighty years
and never called upon you.
Yet you have never deprived me
of my food.
Now in your mosque and temple
there is no right of man.
Mollah and priest
have locked all their doors.’

Where are you, O Genghis,
Mahmud of Ghazni
and Kala Pahar?
Break down all the locked doors
of the house of worship!
Who shuts the doors of the house of God?
Who puts locks on them?
All its doors will remain unlocked—
strike them with hammers and crowbars.

O the House of God,
the hypocrites sing of the victory
of their self-interest
climbing over your minaret!

Having hated human beings,
who are they
kissing the Quran,
the Vedas,
the Bible?
Fie! What a shame!
Snatch away those scriptures by force
from their mouths.
The hypocrites worship books
by killing those who have, in fact,
brought these books on earth!
O the ignorant, listen:
it is man who has brought the books,
books have not brought any man.
Adam, David, Jesus, Moses,
Abraham, Mohammad,
Krishna, Buddha, Nanak, Kabir—
all are the treasures of the world;
they are our forefathers;
their blood, more or less, runs through our veins.
We are their children, kinsmen—
we are of the same body;
who knows when some of us may become
like them!

Don’t laugh, my friend!
The self within me
is fathomless and infinite;
Do I know or does any body know
who the great exists in me?
Perhaps Kakli is emerging in me,
Mahdi and Jesus in you;
Who knows what is one’s limit or origin?
Who can find one’s trace?
Whom do you hate, O brother,
whom do you kick?
Perhaps God resides day and night
within his heart!
Or prhaps he is nothing—
not great, not of high esteem;
He is just covered with filth, badly wounded
and burning in the flame of sorrow;
Yet all the holy books
and the houses of worship of the world
are not as holly as that tiny body of him!
Perhaps in his semen,
in his cottage
someone will be born
unmatched in the history of the world.
Perhaps he who will deliver such a speech
the world has not yet heard
and whose great power
the world has not yet witnessed
is coming in his house!

Who is he? A Chandal? Why do you startle?
He is no despicable being.
He may be Harishchandra
or Shiva of crematorium.
Today he is Chandal
but tomorrow he may be a great yogi-emperor;
Tomorrow you will come to him with offerings
and sing of his eulogy.
Whom do you neglect as a shepherd?
That negligence
plays on someone’s flute.
Perhaps Gopal of Brojo has come
in a shepherd’s disguise.

You hate a man for his being a peasant!
Observe whether father Balarama
has come in a peasant’s disguise.
All the prophets were the shepherds of lambs;
they ploughed too,
and those very men
carried the eternal messages
which exist till now
and will exist for ever.
Every day begging men and women
turn away from each door;
Perhaps Bholanath and Girijaya
came among them—
we could not recognize.
You were in fear that you might lose
your wealth if you gave alms;
That is why, you made your doorman
beat the beggar
and thus you chased away a god.
That beatings are recorded
and who knows whether you are forgiven
by the humiliated goddess!
O friend, your bosom is full of greed,
your two eyes are full of self-interest;
otherwise you would see
the god has become a coolie to serve you.
O beast, will you plunder the god
within a man’s heart
and the nectar churned out of his pain
to appease your hunger?
Your Mandodari the food of your hunger
knows well, in which location of your palace
lies your death-arrow.
O beast, through the ages,
your desire-queen has dragged you
into your death-holes.

03 0.3.2016 Sirajganj

‘God’ By Kazi Nazrul Islam

O brother, who are you
scouring the sky and the earth
for the Lord of the world?

Who are you
wandering through the wilderness
and ascending the mountain-peaks?

It’s a pity, O hermit, O dervish,
you are looking for the jewel of heart
from country to country
holding it into your bosom!
The whole creation stares at you
while you are keeping your eyes shut;
You look for God— actually
you are looking for your ownself.
O will-blind man!
Open your eyes and look at your image
in the mirror, you will see
His shadow has fallen on your entire body.

Don’t shudder,
don’t get frightened of the scholars of scriptures,
o hero—
surely they are not God’s private secretaries!
He is revealed among all. He is in all.
Seeing myself, I can recognize my unseen creator!

The merchants deal in jewels on the sea-shore—
Never ask them about the jewel-mine.
They are merely the traders ofjewels
but they pretend they know the jewel-mine!
They have not dived
into the unfathomable depth
of the jewel-bearing sea.
O friend, instead of delving into scriptures,
dive into the water ofTruth-sea.

01.03.2016 Sirajganj

‘The Egalitarian’ By Kazi Nazrul Islam

I sing the song of equality,
in which all obstacles and distances are dissolved,
in which the Hindus, the Buddhists, the Muslims
and the Christians have got united.
I sing the song of equality!

Who are you?A Persian? A Jain? A Jew?
A Santhal, a Bhil, a Garo?
A Confucian? A follower of Charbak?
Continue. Tell more.
O friend, whoever you are,
whatever books and scriptures you carry
into stomach, on back, on shoulder and into brain,
the Quran, the Puranas, the Vedas, the Bible,
the Tripitaka—
the Zend-Avestha, the Granth Sahib—
read as much as you desire.
But why do you waste your labour?
Why are you throwing spears into your brain?
Why do you haggle in a shop
when fresh flowers bloom at your roadside?

The wisdom of all scriptures and ages
lies within you.
O friend, open your heart,
you will find all scriptures there.
Within you, lie all religions,
lie all the prophets ofall ages
and your heart is the world-temple
ofeveryone’s gods.
Why do you look for Godin the skeletons
of dead books?
He smiles into the secret concealment
of your immortal heart!
O friend, I have not told a lie—
It is the place where all crowns tumble and toss.
This very heart is the Nilachal, Kashi, Mathura, Brindaban;
It is Bodh-Gaya, Jerusalem, Medina and Kaaba.
It is the mosque, it is the temple, it is the church;
Sitting here, Jesus and Moses
found the identity of truth.

In this battlefield, the young flute player
sang the Bhagavad Gita;
In this pasture, the sheep-grazing prophets
became friends to God.
Sitting in the meditation-cave of this heart,
Shakyamuni abandoned his kingdom
hearing the call of men’s great sufferings.
In this cave, the Prince of Arabia
used to hear the divine call;
sitting here, he sang the Quran’s equality-song.
O brother, what I have heard is not a lie—
there is no temple,
no Kaaba
greater than this heart.

Sorrow Of Bud

‘Why does there lie sorrow and gloom
on thy face? ‘
‘Because I have to bloom’
the bud says.

Yet the bud blooms,
then begins to die,
like dewdrops falling down on tombs
says, ‘Goodbye.’



Day comes and dark night goes;
It is high time you rose.
Don’t sleep more, o brothers.

If you rise,
Darkness dies,
Sun will peek in the sky happily with others.

How do you sleep
closing your door?
When everywhere
Cry all the poor?

Crying women;
Dying children;
Listen, crying mankind,
old fathers and mothers.


Recite La Ilaha Illalla.
Fight for La Ilaha Illalla.
None is God but Allah.

Who blows the wind?
Who is so kind?
He keeps us fine.
For our guideline
he has sent the Quran and Mohammad Rasulullah.

Allah is our creator,
Mohammad our Prophet.
We do worship Allah
and the Satan we hate.

Who gives water?
Son and daughter?
He gives us all
both big and small,
best gift is the Quran and Mohammad Rasulullah.


Jews are dancing in Gaza;
Europe is laughing.
Muslims are dying in Gaza;
America is laughing.
Where are you, O Humanity,
What’s happening on earth, come here and see.

How many death is called massacre?
How many death is called genocide?
The Jew-beasts are blindly hunting lives;
Thousands of children-women have died.
Here is flowing the red blood-sea.
Where are you, O Humanity,
What’s happening on earth, come here and see.

Rise, all the youths of the Muslim world.
How long this way will you stay asleep?
It is time to uproot Israel;
It is time for you to howl and leap.
Tear up Jew-beasts’ brutality.
Where are you, O Humanity,
What’s happening on earth, come here and see.

Come to salat, O man,
To fulfil your Iman.
Salat is the door to Zannah
Which is full of hoor and manna.

Our Present, Past and Tomorrow
Will be full of sigh and sorrow
If we forget to pray,
If we forget to say,
‘We only love and worship you, O Lord Rahman.’

Salat is the Miraj of those
Who love Allah purely as Rose.
Salat five times a day
Cures those men’s souls who say,
‘There’s no god but Allah; only He is Rahman.’


People on earth are crying;
Women-children are dying;
We need here you, ya rasulullah
Ya nabi, ya habibullah.

People on earth want peace,
want mercy and justice;
Who can give it but you, ya rasulullah?
Ya nabi, ya habibullah.

You knew how to love man,
and knew how to forgive;
When all were in darkness,
you gave new life to live.

Darkness is now on earth;
Babies are crying from birth;
Who can save them but you, ya rasulullah?
Ya nabi, ya habibullah.

23 Ramadan 1436

Mad: 4

Sometimes he cannot recognize himself.
He cannot recognize his own hands, own legs, own body,
even his own voice. It seems to him that he is an alien,
a man of different language who has been haunting him
for twenty four hours like a shadow.

Sometimes he calls himself by his own name.
It seems to him that thousand years have already passed.
Has his corpse been rotten then, or has he himself
been a mummy? Is he in a dwelling house or in a museum?

All on a sudden, he shouted loudly saying ‘Thief! Thief! ‘
Saying ‘Police! Police! ‘, he caught red-handed
his one hand by the other hand and said to himself, ‘Who are you
at this inopportune moment here? ‘ And instantly he releases
that hand, nobody knows why, getting afraid very much.

Valuable And More Valuable

Trees, valuable;
more valuable, fruits.
Trees die,
fruits become trees.

Rivers, valuable,
more valuable water;
no water,
no river.


There is no fool
who says his homeland is not beautiful.

There is no mad
who says his mother is so bad.

There is no bird
who, by singing his songs, gets tired.

There is no dove
hates love.

My Heart Aches

My heart aches
for her who bakes
my heart putting on an oven.

My heart cries
for her who fries
my heart putting on an oven.

My heart worships her,
for she’s my killer.

I Wish Nothing But Your Company

It’s a small hut among the innumerable stars of the sky
having windows between each one hand gap;
through those windows, the light of stars enters in;
eyes get stuck to half light and half darkness;
it is neither a day nor a night- what a sight it is!
lying on the bed, watching the sky is the only task
that has no end; fascination remains in two eyes,
joy within heart; in that desolation, O my Love,
I wish nothing but your company.

My Daughter

A rose
every day goes
to school all see.
She is only

Blooming a rose is fine
but going far away leaving me alone
is like keeping on heart a heavy stone.

Red Red Rose

Tomorrow will be today tomorrow
and today yesterday.
This happiness will be sorrow
when ‘Goodbye’ you will say.

O my Love, rose like red,
why have we come so close
if this love once hatred?
O my Love red red rose!

You Can, You Cannot

You can
kill but

My Poetry

Those who will go back to the cow-cart’s civilization
and will go back to the civilization of hand-made palm-leaf’s fan;

Those who want to cross seven oceans and thirteen rivers on foot
and want to fill up the the east and the west with the odors of corpses;

Those who will go back to illiteracy
and will go back to the spells of witches, talismans and superstitions;

Those who think `dogs are more faithful than men’
and trust on the fate-ghosts more than on struggle, slogan and procession;

Those who will destroy people’s dwellings with bulldozers
and then on that debris will build up the palace
for foxes and boars;

for those idiots, my poetry as angry as cobra and
as ferocious as hyena, bear sad news burnt in fire.