This isn't the kind of city, <br />Once I called my own. <br />The city belongs to foxy politicians, <br />Unscrupulous traders, flesh racketeers, pimps, loompens, rapists, <br />But this cannot be my city. <br /> <br />The city belongs to mute witnesses, <br />To rape and murder but not to me, <br />The city belongs to hypocrites, <br />Feigning nonchalance to the sight of destitute, <br />At slums and beggars dying on the avenues of the rich. <br />This is the city of the escapists, <br />Who at the slightest premonition of a peril, <br />Make the hastiest retreat. <br />This is the city of the spooks <br />They stoically sit on the piles of injustice; <br />Here they go into rhapsodies, <br />Over the question of life after death. <br />This is the city of the soothsayers, <br />Agents of self-aggrandizement, opportunists. <br />I can never call it my own city, never. <br />Liars, cheats, religious bigots abound in here; <br />In this city, we're a handful of men and women <br />Armed with logic, liberal thoughts, <br />Voice against injustice, <br />Live in beating hearts. <br />Not my City. <br /> <br />[Translated by Sujal Bhattacharya]<br /><br />Taslima Nasrin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-my-city/
